


Limit Break

by KrisRix



Series: Three-Chord Progression [3]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Blow Jobs, Eventual Smut, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, POV Alternating, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Power Play, Spa Treatments, The Deconstructed Texting Fic Nobody Asked For, Vacation, Vulnerability, Weekend Getaway, oh and a lot of hickeys, this gets so sappy, yes I wrote another fic of them in a spa hotel...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23286238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix
Summary: Baz’s last exam is Friday morning. I’m pretty fucking confident he spells his car with amake way for the kingbecause he’s at my door by noon, bags already in the boot. He’s so eager to get going, he doesn’t kiss me hello—that’s a thing we do properly now, and I’m a bit disappointed he’s too focused on snatching up my bag to bother with it.Which makes me smile, actually. Being huffy with him fornotkissing me is a pretty good spot to be in.Baz is drilling me about what I’ve packed (“Do you have the reservation? Your mobile charger? Wallet? Clothes that aren’t awful trackie bottoms? Swimsuit? Please tell me you brought enough clean pants, Snow—”), so I pin him against the car once he’s squirrelled away my bag. His mouth falls open in surprise.“You’re fretting,” I tell him. “Shut up and kiss me.”Baz purses his lips, suppressing a smile. “If you insist.”We kiss until I feel his tension ease off. Makes me feel better, too.Then we’re on our way.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: Three-Chord Progression [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645438
Comments: 83
Kudos: 612





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The continuation of [Love Season](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22730992) and [Action Potential](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22891333). You'll want to have read those first.  
> The biggest of thank yous to my wonderful betas, [tbazzsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow) and [names_for_dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/names_for_dusk) 🖤

BAZ

I know I’m overly dramatic. I know I have a self-destructive streak, particularly in my penchant for inflicting emotional harm on myself and others. I find a perverse enjoyment in metaphorical self-flagellating and picking at the scabs. I’ll even admit I’ve a dash of masochism. It’s understandable—when so much of what you crave is designed to cause pain, the wires are going to get crossed here and there.

All of that being said ... I am not the _least bit fucking pleased_ by the specific breed of agony I’ve been languishing in for the past four weeks.

I have possessed increasingly minuscule amounts of free time to spend with Snow. The school term is pulling me down kicking and screaming, and there is nothing exhilarating about it. ( _Snow_ could push me down kicking and screaming—I would love that. I always have done.) My days are smothered in tutorials and papers and assignments and revisions and studying, studying, _studying_ —

I usually enjoy my educational pursuits. I know this is just an extremely uncomfortable blip. Merely temporary.

But, merciful Morgana, it’s fucking _torture_ right now in the worst of ways.

I’ve barely even had the time to snog him lately. The Bunce-Snow flat is in the opposite direction from LSE as mine. As the term’s requirements become more demanding, I’m unable to justify the time spent heading to their flat instead of my own. I can only ask to stay so many nights per week.

(There’s a half-drawer for me there. It was his decision to carve out the space. I fold my things crisp and tight: two outfits, one set of pyjamas, a few pairs of socks and pants. Plus, a travel grooming kit and a spare laptop charger.) (I _could_ stay more than I do. But I’m a coward. I don’t want him to feel smothered.) (And I fear Bunce is going to start charging me rent soon.)

Regardless of if I had the bravery to ask (which I don’t), there’s simply no time to spare. Instead, I spend nearly all of my evenings in my flat. Alone. Wanting. Despite how sufficiently overwhelmed with my courses I am—despite all my years’ worth of practise—I can’t get thoughts of Snow out of my mind.

Sometimes, I swear I can still taste him on the back of my tongue....

Sometimes ... well, there’s nothing for it; I have to set aside my books, hang my head back, and relive the memory of him until I’m spent. His heat, and weight, and scent, and flavour—I can’t relive it _enough_. It’s like I’m fifteen all over again.

I’m considering losing myself to the fantasy right now. It’s two in the morning, and I want nothing more than to crawl into bed with Simon. Which isn’t an option, but I can at least pretend.

I shouldn’t. I’m finalizing my last paper to turn in tomorrow. I need to focus.

After that, I’ll only have two exams to sit through. The end of the term is a mere four days away.

Then ... he’s mine.

Aside from all the obvious physical yearning, most of all I just miss _him_. His presence. His voice. Those smiles that are becoming more and more frequent. I even miss his messy room—the clothes on the floor, the crumbs in his bed, his rumpled sheets, the toothpaste stains in the bathroom sink...

It was the right decision for us to no longer be roommates after Watford. It might be a while longer before we’re ready for that again. Still ... life isn’t the same without Simon around me all the time, mucking things up.

I can’t wait to share a room with him again this weekend. Just the two of us.

Though there is the nagging concern that my desperation for a repeat performance—by either one of us, really—will lead to nothing but trouble.

All I can do is stay restrained when the time comes ... and do my best to exhaust myself with indulgence up until that point.

I know better—I’ve never been able to wank him away. Certainly not for lack of trying. Though I suppose another attempt couldn’t hurt—

There’s no time to take it slow. I lean back in my desk chair and close my eyes, immediately pushing one hand into my pants. I run my tongue along the inside of my cheek, pretending the taste of him is to be found there. I search out the ghost of his weight pushing against the back of my throat.

I’m itching so terribly for any sort of touch that when my mobile vibrates in my pocket, a shudder runs through me, stealing my breath.

“Crowley,” I hiss at my own pathetic state. I fumble for my mobile with my free hand and blush when I see it’s a text from Simon:

— _hey u up?_

— _Is this a booty call or a genuine question?_

— _both?_

_jk_

_I want to kno if ur still up cuz u should be sleeping by now for sure_

_buuuuut also im lying here thinking about you_

I give myself a squeeze and try not to feel too guilty about it. Ever since I texted Simon my erotic fantasy, our correspondences have become more flirtatious, only proving to make these past weeks all the more unbearable.

— _I would have been finished with my work and asleep much earlier if a certain someone weren’t always distracting me._

— _how am I distracting u if I’m not there??_

— _You ask, as if you didn’t just admit to lying in your bed, thinking about me._

— _touche_

_wishing u were here_

I melt further into my seat, taking a moment to relish Simon’s message.

— _I wish I was there, as well._

— _what would u do if u were?_

This man truly is going to be the death of me.

— _Don’t do this to me, you dehydrated gremlin. I have too much work to do._

— _lol_

_how the tables have turned_

— _You’re perilously close to having me break down your door._

— _oh no_

_how awful_

— _You’ll regret your sarcasm._

— _nah cuz ur not gonna do it_

_nice to pretend tho_

How unfathomable. I can’t believe Simon hasn’t backed down yet. This is the most brazen he’s been....

Fuck the paper. I shove away from my desk and set my alarm for two hours earlier than planned. I’m going to crawl into bed and wank while texting my infuriating boyfriend.

— _You want me to tuck you in with a bedtime story?_

— _plz_

— _Very well._

_If I were there..._

SIMON

Baz’s last exam is Friday morning. I’m pretty fucking confident he spells his car with a **make way for the king** because he’s at my door by noon, bags already in the boot. He’s so eager to get going, he doesn’t kiss me hello—that’s a thing we do properly now, and I’m a bit disappointed he’s too focused on snatching up my bag to bother with it.

Which makes me smile, actually. Being huffy with him for _not_ kissing me is a pretty good spot to be in.

Baz is drilling me about what I’ve packed ( _“Do you have the reservation? Your mobile charger? Wallet? Clothes that aren’t awful trackie bottoms? Swimsuit? Please tell me you brought enough clean pants, Snow—”_ ), so I pin him against the car once he’s squirrelled away my bag. His mouth falls open in surprise.

“You’re fretting,” I tell him. “Shut up and kiss me.”

Baz purses his lips, suppressing a smile. “If you insist.”

We kiss until I feel his tension ease off. Makes me feel better, too.

Then we’re on our way.

* * *

It’s nearly a four-hour drive. ( _“See?_ This _is a road-trip, Snow.”_ ) The weather is crap today—all overcast and chilly. The weekend itself is supposed to be nice, thankfully. One of the reasons I picked this specific resort is because they have secluded outdoor hot tubs, and I want to do that with Baz. Enjoy a bit of nature with him, without all the roughing it.

Baz gets us out of London and well on our way. We stop for petrol and a toilet break, and when I come back to the car, he tosses me the keys.

“Think you can handle it, Snow?”

I stare at him. “You’re going to let me drive your car?”

Baz slides into the passenger seat. Answer enough, I figure. I hop in.

I haven’t driven since America.... It didn’t bother me at the time, but now I’m realizing how disorienting the car being all flipped around is.

“The stick’s on the other side!” I baulk.

Baz laughs. “You’ll be fine.” He puts his hand over mine on the gear lever—a thrill runs up my arm.

He has to talk me through all of it. It’s a rocky start, and I keep cheating to check the writing on the centre console. Baz keeps his hand on mine, guiding me through the shifts as I get us back out onto the motorway.

“Ease up on the—there, yes. That’s perfect.”

“Yeah?”

“Perfect, Simon.”

_Fuck..._

I love him so much.

Once we’re sailing, Baz releases me. When I shoot him a look about it, I catch his moony smile. He rests his hand on the back of my neck instead. _Perfect_.

The traffic isn’t too bad, and even with stopping for lunch and toilet breaks, we get there by half past five. (Baz takes the wheel back when we start getting close—neither one of us trusts me to drive off the motorway—too much turning and gear-shifting.) I get us checked in while Baz and the porter deal with the bags. (We’re only staying two nights, we don’t _need_ a porter’s help, but it’s one of those places, I guess.) There’s a bottle of some kind of champagne on ice for us in the room—which reminds me...

I kneel down in front of the small cooler we brought and open it up. There’s two pints of pig’s blood inside with ice tucked all around it. Should get Baz through the weekend very comfortably. “Nice and cold. We should toss some more ice in before bed tonight.”

“I’ll have room service bring it up later,” Baz agrees. He’s immediately fussing with hanging his clothes in the closet. (Looks like the posh git brought enough clothes for a _week_.) “What’s the plan for this evening?”

“Dinner’s in about an hour, and then we can go hit up the mud spa thingie.”

Baz smirks at me over his shoulder. “The technical term, I trust?”

“Fuck off.”

He keeps faffing about with coat hangers. “Shall we explore the grounds before dinner and the mud thingie, then?”

“Yeah, if you ever stop with your bloody clothes.”

Baz closes the closet door straight away.

* * *

This place is fucking fancy. I saw all their photos and ‘virtual tours’ on their website—it’s something else to see it in person. There’s a full-blown _lake_ in the front and so many different spas and relaxation rooms and whatever. I’m glad it’s all so spacious, otherwise it would be way more overwhelming.

Baz seems well chuffed. That’s good. Keeps me grounded, even though I feel super out of place. I take his hand at some point, and I swear to magic, he _beams_ at me.

Dinner’s great. The restaurant isn’t as suffocating, despite how small it is in comparison. It’s crammed with vibrant wing-back chairs in orange and lime green, and there are plump booths along the side walls. Kitschy curtains hang from the large windows overlooking the lake. There’s a silly sort of charm to the whole thing. Not what I would have expected. I might like it.

And the _food_. Fuck me. Baz orders the steak—it’s got peppercorn sauce and comes with a salad and chunky chips. The seasoning on everything’s incredible. (I know because he lets me have a few bites.) (More than a few.) I get the chicken because not only is there a chicken breast smothered in garlic butter, there’s _also_ a leg fried in buttermilk. _And_ bacon and sweetcorn and bread.

It’s heaven. I’m so glad I get to share it with Baz. That he actually eats in public now.

Sometimes I’m overtaken with the desire to fly back to America just to smash Lamb’s perfect, smarmy face in. But ... well, I don’t want to be thankful towards Lamb for anything—he was a manipulative arsehole who completely took advantage of Baz—still, I can admit it was a good thing they met. And sometimes I’m still not sure why Baz didn’t want to stay behind....

Those are thoughts I’m getting better at dismissing. Especially when Baz is sat across from me, smiling like that. There’s a faint squint to his eyes, a subtle warmth—anyone else might not realize he’s smiling. I know better.

I tap my boot against his ankle and smile back.

BAZ

Snow and I are seated in wicker chairs on one of the many decks out back. There’s a heat lamp nearby to help cut the late-March chill. The sun is mostly set, leaving us with only the faint suggestion of the sprawling scenery before us, green as far as the eye can see.

“We should appreciate this view over breakfast tomorrow,” I suggest.

“Mmm.”

Snow sips at the ale he picked up from the bar behind us. I consider my own drink (a martini), take a small taste, then clear my throat.

“So. Lancashire.”

Snow shifts in his seat. “Yeah.”

“I doubt that’s a coincidence.”

Snow shrugs, shifts again, then heaves a sigh. His eyes are trained on the trees in the distance, growing ever darker against the encroaching night sky. “I wanted ... I haven’t...”

I stare off at the scenery with him, soaking up what little of Lancashire is laid before us. Naturally, I had looked up the hotel’s location right away: a mere fifteen minutes from Blackpool. I was surprised, to say the least. I’ve been refraining from bringing it up ... but I know Simon Snow well enough to understand he’ll never explain his reasoning without a nudge.

Eventually, Snow tries again. “I’ve not really been back since.”

“This is where you grew up, right?”

He offers up another shrug. “Sort of. Not _here_ here, but ... close by. Until the Mage came for me.” He takes a gulp of ale. (I watch the bob of his throat peripherally.) “The summers after that, I stayed other places, all up north, yeah, but not around here. This is. Um. I’ve only been back once since. Sort of.”

After we’ve both taken a moment to sip our drinks, Snow doesn’t elaborate, so I ask, “When was that?”

Snow breathes out a bitter laugh. “End of seventh year. When the—the Humdrum whisked me and Penny away.”

I knew about that event—I was there when they disappeared, after all—and we all witnessed the chaos when the dynamic duo burst into the end-of-year ceremony. I hadn’t realized the Humdrum transported them _this_ far, however....

“I guess,” Snow continues, reading my mind, “it was me who did the whisking, if you think about it. Doesn’t matter. I didn’t exactly stick around to reminisce.”

I tilt my head at him. “Is that why we’re here? To reminisce?”

“No. I mean. I wanted ... I wanted to see it again, maybe. See a _nice_ part of it for once. And ... show that. To you. Not that this is anything like the Lancashire I knew, but—you know.”

“Thank you,” I say, loud enough so he can hear me over his building bluster. “I appreciate you sharing this with me.”

Snow sets his jaw and sinks further into his seat. Then he nods. “Yeah. I. Me too.”

I hold out my hand between our chairs. It takes a frightening beat—then Snow gives me a small smile as he puts his hand in mine.

We sit in silence, enjoying our drinks and the fading scenery.

SIMON

After our drinks, Baz and I go back to the room to get into swimsuits. He changes in the toilet, and we both cover up with the fluffy robes the hotel provides. To be safe, he freshens up the spell Penny put on my wings and tail before we left London. Then it’s towels and flip flops, and off we go. I feel like a total knob, walking around like this. Meanwhile, Baz still manages to look stylish, completely in his element.

I’m trying not to stare. It’s impossible once we get to the treatment room and the attendants take our robes. We’re getting some kind of salt exfoliation pre-treatment before they rub us in mud or something—I’m not really paying attention. Even while the lady’s hands are all over me, all I can focus on is Baz. He’s so fucking distracting.

This is the most naked I’ve ever seen him. All those years at Watford and the only skin I ever caught sight of was when he was on the pitch—those strong thighs or a flash of stomach when he was wiping away his sweat. When we fooled around on his birthday, he still had on his shirt and socks (and I was a bit too distracted to take in the sights, honestly). I have had a few occasions to see Baz shirtless, but I’ve never really gotten a chance to _look_.

The scars on his chest are completely gone, I realize. For all the damage America did to him, I’m glad he’s not marked up by it. Not on the outside, anyway. (I’ve got scars. On my wings. Even with all the healing spells Baz and Penny doused me in.) (My wings are impervious to magic in the strangest ways. He still struggles to spell them off.) Baz is all clear skin, all the way down....

Crowley. Baz is uncomfortably beautiful. He’s filled in some recently—he eats better now—though he’s still real lean. Every line and plane of him is other-worldly, like he’s made of marble. Cool and solid and a work of art.

If not for his hair, I’d swear he was a statue. Despite needing to shave regularly, Baz doesn’t have an abundance of body hair. What’s on his arms and legs is dark, but kind of thin and sparse, so you hardly notice. There's a nice splash across his chest, with a whisper that runs down to his navel, then into his swimsuit. You might miss the trail, if you weren’t really looking. (I’m definitely really looking.)

I realize in time that this is a very bad place to pop a stiffy over my hot boyfriend. Especially when this lady’s hands are still touching me. (Which I’m not upset about.) (She’s very pretty, and it feels good.) (I still don’t know what that means—what that makes me.) I force myself to stop ogling Baz and catch him giving me a knowing smirk. _Fuck_ , I was being really obvious, wasn’t I?

Thankfully, there’s far less of Baz to get distracted by once the mud application starts. Besides, it feels super weird and kind of grosses me out. Reminds me way too much of that time in third year when Penny and I were hunting will-o’-the-wisp and I got sucked into a sentient mudslide. Makes me squirmy—and I must be pulling a face, because Baz is snickering at me.

We’re made to sit in some sauna with these big chairs. (The staff refers to them as ‘chamber thrones’. It’s right fucking silly, is what it is.) There are sprinklers in the ceiling spitting at us. I mean, maybe it’s supposed to feel like rain droplets—to help wash the mud off?—but it’s pretty strange, if you ask me. We only just put all the mud _on_. Is the point to wash it off right away? Like soap? I consider asking Baz, but I figure he’ll laugh at me again.

Actually, that’s probably not bad. I kind of like when he takes the piss out of me.

I ask, and Baz explains how it’s all about detoxifying our pores with different types of mud that have various mineral compositions. Or some such rot. He’s also eager to point out that the ladies explained this to us before we started. As if I was paying attention to anything other than Baz’s thighs. Which are becoming increasingly distracting again, by the way, now that the mud and water are painting these captivating rivulets along the length of him—

I spend the next half hour getting a lot of mud in my eyes while trying to catch peeks of Baz.

* * *

We sink onto the big bed in our hotel room. We’ve both changed into pyjamas—me, in dark grey joggers; Baz, in a blue and white vertically-striped ensemble that’s made from the softest cotton I’ve ever felt. He’s leaning over me, kissing me, running a hand along my bare torso like I’m the softest thing _he’s_ ever felt—which maybe I am, after all that _exfoliating_ and _detoxifying_.

I’m so fucking glad we’re snogging. I’ve been dying to kiss him for hours. Weeks, actually—we haven’t had a proper snog since his birthday. I’ve been struggling to get by on the memory of it. Thank magic he indulged me with those texts a few days ago—I was at my wit’s end. It gets harder all the time. Whenever I get a piece of him, my appetite only grows. I’m aching with relief at finally having his taste on my tongue again.

Baz must be aching, too—I can feel him against my hip. I roll us onto our sides, needing to break our kiss to do so, which makes Baz grumble in complaint. I can’t help but smile.

“Hey,”—I always feel compelled to kind of whisper when we’re in the dark like this—“I missed you.”

Baz’s expression goes all warm and sweet. “I missed you, as well.”

“I know it’s your present and all, but I’ve been looking forward to this. Being with you, without anything getting in the way.”

“That’s...,” Baz sighs. He knocks his forehead to mine. “That’s very good to hear.”

It hurts that something which should be so simple is so monumental for us. Being alone with your partner isn’t supposed to be such a big deal, right? I hate feeling like this—that I make _him_ feel like this.

Fuck, I don’t want to think about those things right now. I don’t want to think at all.

I focus all my attention on the tingle left on my lips from kissing him. I should do it again—kiss him. He’s so close, his cool breath is on my face—feels lovely, but then I start thinking that my breath is on his face, too, which makes me hesitate. I’m rubbing his waist and hip; his fingers are trailing up and down my side—which was amazing a moment ago, and now feels like—

Don’t think.

I nudge my face against his, Baz immediately closing his eyes and opening his mouth for me. I try to get lost in the taste of him again....

“Want you,” I groan.

Baz’s breath stutters. “Me too.” He pulls me closer. Our bodies bump together, making my brain ricochet away again.

This isn’t working. I need to think about _something_ —

“Um—can we—?”

Baz watches me with half-lidded eyes. “Anything.”

“The ... the other day. Those texts you sent me...? Can we do that...?”

Baz’s eyes open fully. He blinks at me a few times as blood flushes his face. (He fed before we got into bed.) “I—” He clears his throat. “Yes, of course.”

* * *

— _If I were there, we would be lying side by side in your bed, under the covers. We would be kissing and touching each other—light, unhurried, chaste. I would want more. You would, too. I would take your wrist and urge you up my shirt. Your warm, calloused hand would explore me, less tentative with each sound of pleasure I’d pour past your lips._

* * *

Baz is moaning sweetly into my mouth as I feel him up. I’m not sure why it’s so hot, feeling up a bloke. (I guess because I like blokes.) I just mean, that’s something I thought you only did with girls. I didn’t think guys would ever want their chests fondled. I wasn’t even all that sure if girls wanted it, really. Agatha never seemed interested.

I’m definitely not going to think about Agatha right now.

I think about Baz—cold under my hand, but warming up fast. Heated with blood and _me_. He gasps when I pinch his nipple, then kisses me harder when I do it again.

I think about how I couldn’t take my eyes off of him earlier. I was so flushed from the sight of him in that swimsuit. And I’ll get to see it again tomorrow—for even longer, probably.

I want to see him naked. Now.

That’s not part of the fantasy, though. Which is probably for the best. I’m letting Baz lead. I can do this….

* * *

— _You would let me run my fingers through your hair while I bruised your neck. Once I’m overstimulated, you would move your attention away from my nipples, trailing down. I would whisper ‘please’ and ‘yes’ and ‘Simon’ against your throat while you would rub me through my pyjamas. I would drag my nails down your back, and you would love it._

* * *

I _do_ love it. It’s startling, makes me hiss and arch. It stings, and the hickeys Baz is leaving on me throb. It’s a good hurt. I always liked when Baz and I got in scraps. I didn’t realize we could be doing this instead. Or maybe all those scraps is why I like this so much. Doesn’t matter. All I know is Baz is touching me, and it’s _good—_

Baz’s cock is solid in my hand, fully hard. I am, too. I wonder if I’ll be okay with him touching me tonight. That’s part of the fantasy—it’s coming up soon. I think I want it.

I rub my palm up and down Baz over his pyjamas, basking in the sounds and shivers I draw out of him. Touching him is always so good. And kissing. Fuck—I need to kiss him. Baz arcs back with a groan when I give him a squeeze; then I grab him with my other hand by the back of the neck and crash my mouth against his.

* * *

— _You would stroke me, kiss me, watch me. My pleasure would be at your mercy. And yours, at mine. I would wait until you want it too much. You would be beautiful, flushed and straining. Desperate for me. But I would wait. I would touch your chest, sides, hips, back; I would ignore your cock. And then you would growl, patience wearing thin, and you would try to get closer. Your touch would be urgent as I would grind into your hand. You would need more—of me and relief—and that’s when I would finally give it to you: when you’re too wound up to ever want to pull back._

* * *

Baz is too good at this. He’s all hot breaths and decadent sounds, making me wild. He’s rubbing my hip while his own hips thrust in a lazy, unsteady rhythm against my grip. It’s good these pyjamas are so soft.... I can feel a wet spot from Baz’s excitement, and I know I’m making a mess out of my joggers. He’s going to come in his pants if we keep this up. (Is he wearing pants?) (I don’t think so—it doesn’t feel like it. His cock is _right there_.)

I want to see that—Baz coming undone with his clothes still on. That’s part of the fantasy, as well, for both of us. Do I want to come in my joggers? Do I want to come at all? —Yeah, yeah, I definitely want to come _somehow_. I’m growling and trying to get closer, just like Baz said I would be.

Fuck—that means he’s going to touch me soon. Every sweep of his hand over the waistband of my joggers makes me clench up. When is he going to do it? Do I want him to do it? I’m supposed to want it so bad that I can’t back down. Do I want it that much?

What if I’ll never want it that much?

Do I not want Baz enough...?

His hand slips down, skimming over my erection, the thick material of my clothes still between us. It’s not enough, but it’s also too much. A wave of something goes through me—pleasure and relief—and then nausea.

I’m not supposed to feel nauseous over this.

I’m not— I can’t—

I can’t be what he needs me to be—

BAZ

Simon is tense and breathing hard. We’re both panting more than kissing at this point, and it’s devastatingly good. I’m trying not to lose myself to it completely—especially not now, when he’s grunting and nudging closer. This is it, this is my chance—

He whimpers when I finally run my touch down his length. He’s hot, thick, and I can suddenly remember his taste so vividly—I whimper, as well.

“Simon...,” I sigh against his mouth.

His hips jerk back when I squeeze—too sensitive? _Don’t fuck this up_ , I tell myself, though it’s hard to focus through the fog of lust. Simon’s hand is still working me—tighter, even. But if he needs something gentle, I can give that to him.

I can be whatever he needs—

“Baz...”

I run my fingertips along him, feeling out his shapes through the fabric. I want to feel him—each inch of skin and pulsing vein. Too bad I wrote a wank fantasy wherein we remained clothed. That’s all right, one step at a time. Seeing him in that swimsuit today was feast enough.

Simon’s breath is coming fast and shallow. I find a damp spot and nudge my touch there, caressing his tip. His hips jump away again.

“Baz—?”

“Yes,” I gasp, palming him, “yes, love.”

“ _Baz_.”

I freeze. That wasn’t an encouraging sound.

I open my eyes and draw back enough that I can peer at him in the darkness. He’s trembling and sweating and flushed—all of that could be fine, could be _good_ , but...

Cold coils in my belly.

“Tell me—” I clear my throat. “Tell me what you want.”

Simon’s eyes are scrunched tight. "Can you ... not touch me? Please."

"All right," I say, cautious, withdrawing my hand. "I thought you said you wanted me."

"I do," he gets out through his teeth. "That doesn't mean I can handle you _touching_ me—"

"I don't understand."

"You don't need to," he snaps, eyes still shut. He shifts back—away.

"I'd like to," I press on. It's a risk, I know that. I should be grateful _he's_ willing to touch _me_. I should be restraining myself. (That was the _plan—_ ) But this is the same man who told me last time _‘if you want to touch me, then fucking do it.’_ What happened to that boldness?

"Simon, I want to understand why—"

"Because I'm fucked up!" he yells over me, jerking into a sitting position. His wings break free; the nearer one clips me in the chin before I can leap back in time. I curse, but he’s still raging: "I'm sorry a couple of blow jobs didn't fix me!"

He's all tense lines and radiating anxiety. His tail is slithering against the sheets. In another life, the room would reek of smoke.

I push myself fully upright. I don't dare get too close. "You know that's not what I'm expecting.” I keep my voice steady.

Snow finally looks at me, glaring as he challenges back, "Aren't you?"

"Are _you_?"

He stares. Breathing—no, _fuming_. "What?"

"...I think you were hoping there would be only one step required. It's more complicated than that. We've achieved a foot in the door—it's _progress_ , not a 'fix'. There's nothing to _fix_ , Simon."

"There bloody well is," he hisses. He's far less impassioned now. I'm not sure whether that's better or worse.

"No, there’s ... there are ways to grow and change and become a better—a _happier_ version of yourself."

I lay my hand between us, my palm up in offering. He frowns at it, then shakes his head and groans as he rubs his hands over his face. His wings and tail tuck closer to him.

"I don't want to talk about this,” he mutters. “I didn't come here for a therapy appointment."

"You kind of did." I steel myself against his skewering glare. "A road trip? Lancashire? A hotel, just you and me? You've aligned all of this to be as potentially difficult as possible—"

"Fuck you!"

"That's an observation not an accusation, you resplendent mess!"

Snow is back to seething. "I'm _trying_. What the fuck do you want from me, Baz?"

That gives me pause.

What _do_ I want?

Too much. I want everything from him, all of him, until the lines between us blur like the morphine-haze of when his magic threaded us into one. I want him to be part of me. I want to consume him.

I withdraw my hand, setting it into my lap and my gaze along with it. "Never mind."

“What the fuck.”

“Let’s go to sleep.”

“After all that, you want to drop it?”

Now I’m the one rubbing my hands over my face in distress. “That’s what you asked for!” I groan.

“And you’re just giving it to me?!”

“Yes, I am! Fucking _eight snakes_ , Simon! _What the fuck do_ you _want from_ me _?!_ ”

Snow gapes at me.

Then his eyes dart away.

We’re both left rigid, vibrating with fury at each other—at the situation.

_At least we’re_ on _a bed this time,_ I think, only a touch facetiously, _not yelling at each other across one._

He opens his mouth to say something. Then snaps it shut. Swallows. And then he hassles his hair with an aggressive shrug. It’s a whole ludicrous performance.

It breaks my heart.

“You’re right,” he mumbles. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Is that really what you want...?”

Simon shrugs again. He won’t look at me. “It’s what we always do, innit? Go to bed all fucked up about each other?”

_Fuck it all._

I set my hand on his knee. I keep my touch firm despite the way he flinches. “Maybe we’ve progressed past that sort of thing.”

Simon sighs. He stares at my hand for a long moment before finally dragging his gaze up to meet mine, timid. He licks his lips. “I really don’t want to talk about it right now,” he confesses softly.

“All right.” I give his knee a brief squeeze. “That’s fine.”

“Tomorrow,” he adds. “It’s late. You had your exam, and we had the long drive, and—”

“It’s fine, love.”

Simon nods, then nods more, then leans towards me. “Can we just ... can I hold you...?”

“Yeah,” I say into his hair as he begins crowding me. “Always.”

Simon presses us down into the mattress, arms and tail wrapping around me.

At least there’s that. I can be happy with this much—him and me, sharing a space again, just the two of us.

I wish we hadn’t brought so much fucking baggage, though.


	2. Chapter 2

SIMON

I wake up confused. I’m curled up on my side, squinting into a mostly-dark room that I don’t recognize....

Oh, the hotel.

 _Baz_ —

It’s hard to sense if Baz is in the bed with me. He’s cold and doesn’t breathe all that deeply, especially when he’s asleep. I’m usually well attuned to his presence—all those years sharing a room, our beds barely four feet apart.... Why do I feel further from him now than I did then?

I shift onto my belly and then onto my other side, mindful of my wings and how much I’m jostling the bed. Baz is there. His back is to me, his one arm curled under his pillow, his other keeping the sheets well tucked over him. He looks tense, even in his sleep.

He’s tense because of me. Why did I do all of that, last night? I wanted him, I liked what we were doing. He was doing everything right. Why did I get so lost in my fucking head and make a mess out of things?

Because I _am_ a mess, I guess.

‘ _You resplendent mess!’_ he said last night.

‘ _You literally couldn’t be a bigger mess,’_ he said more than two years ago. (I bet he’s re-evaluated that statement since.)

I hover my hand over his back, wondering if I’m allowed to touch him this morning.

 _Of course I can_ , I tell myself. _Not wanting to be touched is my damage, not his._

I’m a mess. I’ve always been a mess.

‘ _You literally couldn’t be a bigger mess.’_

_He tried to kiss me, but I held back— ‘And you like that?’_

‘ _I love it,’ he said._

‘ _Why?’_

‘ _Because we match.’_

I splay my fingers along Baz’s back. I feel the expansion of his ribs as he takes a deep, waking breath. I rub my way down the notches of his curled spine.

He liked me when we were fighting, when I was threatening him and stalking him, when I was the greatest threat to magic the World has ever known. And I liked him, even when he was trying to kill me, when he was tormenting me all the time, when he and his family were making my life hell. We were awful messes, and we liked each other, and we _matched_.

I slip my hand around Baz, feeling his ribs from the front as I tuck my body to his. He emits a sleepy hum and pushes his shoulder blades against my chest. I drape a wing over him.

Baz isn’t a mess any more. He’s excelling in uni—in his Normal studies. And he’s maturing, growing more confident. Not as cocky or defensive—properly confident. Comfortable in his skin.

He’s a better version of himself every single day.

And I’m not.

And that’s the thing, innit?

We no longer match.

I press my face into Baz’s hair and breathe him in. He shifts his leg to accommodate my tail as it curls around his calf.

I’m not going to give up on this. That’s not who I am. I’m stubborn, and I’m a fighter. I clean up my own messes. I had a setback—a long one—but I’m _trying_. There’s going to be more setbacks along the way, little ones and big ones, ones like last night. My therapist says that’s fine—so long as I _keep_ trying. I will.

I’ll always fight for Baz. I’ve got to fight so that _I_ can keep being a better version of myself every day, too.

I’m sick of following him from afar, staring at his back. I’ve been doing it since we met.

I need to catch up to him.

Baz grumbles softly, and I realize I’m squeezing him—I loosen up and press a kiss to the base of his neck.

“What time is it?” His voice is crackly with sleep.

“Early. Sun’s not up.”

“How dare you.”

I smile against his shoulder. “You mentioned wanting to have breakfast outside.”

“I meant at a reasonable hour.”

I nuzzle the shell of his ear. “We could watch the sunrise.”

“Yes, those are the words every vampire wants to hear— _ah!_ ” He flinches at my teeth sinking into his earlobe. “Menace.”

Baz elbows me away as he rolls onto his back. I prop myself on one arm, hovering, my wing creating a canopy over us. Baz gifts me with a glorious pout. I kiss it. Then I kiss some more.

I keep going until Baz is all jelly-boned. His fingers are lazy as they dance along the edge of my wing. My skin prickles. I want—

No, we should talk first.

I kiss his lips one last time, then his forehead. “Breakfast.”

BAZ

After casting invisibility spells on Snow’s wings, tail, and hickeys (to both of our embarrassments), we don our robes and slippers, then head down to breakfast. Snow wasn’t kidding: it’s a quarter to six, the skies are barely tinged with pink. It’s breathtaking.

We spend a relaxing hour or so in the cool morning air, watching. We sit at a round table outside the dining room with our chairs pulled next to each other. I keep as warm as possible with copious amounts of tea and—when he’s done eating—the comfort of Simon’s arm around my shoulders.

Once the novelty has worn off and other guests start showing up, he gets fidgety. He gives my shoulder a squeeze, then releases me, standing up.

“Where to?” I follow him inside, to the lifts.

“The room. You’re cold.” (I’ve been cold for an hour, though I decide not to point that out.) “Let’s get dressed, then hang out a bit more until we get access to the hydro pool.”

“When is that?”

“About two hours.”

Fine by me, plenty of time to digest. And wake up properly. So much for having a lie-in on my first day of break. (That’s all right. Watching the sun rise over Lancashire with Simon Snow is an experience I’d not trade for anything.)

We wash up and dress. Snow wears a soft, long-sleeved raglan tee shirt in grey and navy, along with jeans that are as blue and boring as his magnificent eyes. I pick out slim, navy chinos and a grey jumper, privately enjoying how well we match.

I get more ice for the champagne we’ve yet to pop and my cooler, then we’re ready. Snow slips our mobiles into our respective pockets. He ignores the questioning quirk of my eyebrow.

We decide another cup of tea couldn’t hurt, then find a partially-secluded nook in the Zen garden with seating gathered around a patio heater. Seeing as how the risen sun has yet to provide much in the way of warmth, I’m grateful for the discovery. I settle in with a relaxed sigh; Snow remains fidgety.

He wants to talk about last night. I see him drumming his fingers on the outline of his mobile in his pocket. He’s chewing his lip and staring off at nothing. After five minutes of this, I cave.

I pull out my phone and send him a text:

— _You have something to say. Go on._

Snow jumps when he feels the vibration go off. He sets down his forgotten tea and scrambles for his phone; then he breathes out a laugh, shooting me a crooked smile that I gladly return.

After that, all I can do is wait....

He types for a long while. Sets down his phone. Stares off. Picks it up and resumes typing. Fusses with his hair. Types some more. Rubs a hand over his face. Sniffles. More typing…

It’s torture, so I mollify myself by watching him, completely undisguised, while I drink my tea. He’s too caught up to notice my staring.

The longest twenty minutes of my life go past. Finally, my mobile buzzes.

— _(none of this message makes sense but im sick of going back thru it to edit it so ur just gonna have to deal) im sorry for last night - I think I was having a panic attack - I hate that, it seems so stupid - especially now that im looking back on it - cuz its not like I don’t want you - I want you so fucking much Baz I don’t know how to deal - I guess that scares me - and then I feel stupid for that scaring me cuz of all the stuff I’ve been thru that’s actually proper fucking scary - but sometimes you look at me and it makes me want to curl into a ball and hide - thats not your fault - please dont ever think thats ur fault - im afraid ur going to see me for what I really am and realize u dont want me after all - im not who I was - I know you know that - not like I do a good job hiding it anyway - every time I think somethings ok and that im doing right by you then I start to worry about when I’ll fuck it up - cuz its bound to happen - I cant stay in the moment - thats what it is - I touch you and its incredible and my brain fucking melts and then when you touch me I come back into my body and remember how shit I am - and then I worry you’ll SEE how shit I am - anyway I dont know what im trying to say - I never know how to tell you things I need to tell you - I dont know how to talk about any of this - I just need you to know that kissing you and touching you is the best thing in my life - seriously - but when u do it to me I start to think too hard about what youre seeing and thinking and I terrify myself - and im sorry - I want you to know that too - im sorry that I want you so bad that I could explode and yet somehow thats not enough - im sorry im such a mess_

As I read, I set my jaw tight enough for it to burn and creak. I don’t think I’ve taken a breath since Simon’s message came through. Or maybe earlier than that. My hands are shaking. I’m too hot and too cold and I’m trying not to cry.

I close my eyes.

I open my eyes and look at Simon. He’s hunched over, pressing his mobile to his forehead, eyes scrunched shut, tears clinging to his stubby lashes which are glistening in the morning sun.

I finally breathe.

Part of me wants to compose my response slowly and carefully, but I can’t, not with Simon so distraught. This is my chance to save him from a burning forest; there’s no time to hesitate.

I send him several messages in rapid succession, my fingers flying over the keys faster than I can think the words:

— _You never have to apologize for telling me to stop or for setting your boundaries._

_Same for having a panic attack or for being scared._

_And certainly never for being a mess._

_And for whatever else it is you think you need to apologize for; I assure you, it’s already forgiven._

Simon huffs as my messages come through. I hear him sniffle more. I keep on:

— _I love that you’re a mess. I’ve told you that. Do you think that’s changed? It hasn’t._

_All the ways that you’re a mess fit so perfectly with the ways I am, as well._

_Sometimes that means we help each other. Other times, it means we clash. But we always, always fit._

_You’ve changed, yes. So have I. That’s what people do._

_That’s a journey I want to keep going on with you._

_I love watching you grow, Simon._

_I love having you by my side while I grow._

_We’ve walked in tandem since we were eleven. I don’t want that to change._

He’s definitely crying now. It’s fairly silent, but I can tell. I don’t stop:

— _You’re so busy kicking yourself that I think you’ve forgotten what a disaster I am._

_Which is quite rude of you; being an overly self-critical disaster is kind of *my thing*._

He releases a wet laugh.

— _You have no idea the amount of time I spend worrying that you’ll suddenly realize who you’re dating._

_Have you forgotten who I am?_

_What I am?_

_I see you typing._

_Stop it._

_No rebuttals._

He grunts and scuffs his boot against the stonework beneath our feet.

— _My point is: you’re allowed to be scared._

_I’m scared, too._

_Of how badly I want you and of what you make me feel._

_Vulnerability is fucking terrifying._

_Especially given our pasts._

_We’re both messes._

_And that’s okay._

I swallow. Clear my throat. Then, I pocket my mobile and dare to look at him.

Simon is still staring at his screen. His eyes are red-rimmed and watery. His lips are screwed up oddly, his chin quivering. And he’s sniffling over and over like a child who refuses to blow their nose.

He’s a beautiful wreck.

I swipe at my own wet eyes, then run a hand through my hair to disguise the gesture. Not that Simon is paying attention—he’s begun to type again.

— _that’s all really fucking sweet_

_youre brilliant_

_also - I feel like im gonna sick up_

I snort when I read his last message—which makes him laugh—which makes _me_ laugh.

The next thing I know, he’s rocketing out of his chair and scrabbling to get into my lap, shoving his wet, snotty, _laughing_ face against mine.

I hold onto him, overwhelmed with all the things we told each other. And all the things I didn’t: _I love you, I love you, Simon Snow, I love you more than I can bear to say._

SIMON

_I love you, Baz, you fucking wonderful arsehole, I love you so damn much._ I still couldn’t tell him—it was already too much—but I will soon, I _will_.

I kiss his face all over, frantic. Baz is pretending he isn’t laughing (or crying) while doing his best to steady me by the hips so I don’t topple the chair with my enthusiasm.

“You’re getting snot on me,” he mutters through my assault.

I pepper kisses along his right cheek. “Shut up.”

“You better not get sick up on me, too.”

More kisses, along his jaw, his chin. “I won’t.”

“Simon—” He angles his head, letting me kiss up his left cheek. “There are other people nearby....”

“Don’t care.” (I don’t.) (It’s amazing.)

Baz chuckles, a low, warm sound, as he nudges his nose at me. “You lovely, lovely mess,” he sighs before catching my lips briefly with his own.

Merlin…

I don’t know how I keep letting myself forget that Baz is also a mess. Just because he makes everything look effortless, doesn’t mean he isn’t struggling. He’s trying as hard as I am.

We _do_ match.

No—fuck matching.

I want more than matching—that’s too passive. I want something _real_. Hands and teeth. I want us to brand each other. I want chains and bonds and things I don’t have the words _or_ the magic for. I want to be so fucking close to him, there’s no room left for doubt.

Which is all mad.

But I … I want…

I want to try again.

I want to keep on trying until I can finally have sex with my bloody boyfriend without it being a huge fucking deal.

I want that. I want him.

And he wants me. He’s told me that. I have to believe him.

He’s so wonderful, even when he’s a mess—I have to believe that’s what he thinks of me, too.

I have to at least pretend that I believe in all that. I have to carry on like I do; otherwise, I can’t carry on at all.

It’s early. There’s plenty of time to kill before our pool appointment....

I drag him back to our room.

* * *

“Crowley,” Baz gripes as I shove him onto the king sized bed.

I crawl on top and ruck up his shirt. “Are you complaining?”

“Ah ... possibly not for long.”

“Good.”

Baz stretches out under me with a pleased groan as I trail kisses down his exposed chest. His nipples are dusky, already peaking—I roll my tongue around one, drawing it into my mouth. Baz gasps and sinks his fingers into my hair.

He tastes like the ocean thanks to the treatment last night and the hotel’s bath products. There’s something exciting about that—Baz with a foreign smell and taste, in this room that’s unfamiliar. Everything is new here, even us—and the people we are today are able to square their shoulders and boldly venture forth; we’re stumbling along this unknown path together.

 _By his side_ , he said. _In tandem_.

I drag my teeth off his nipple, then suckle the other one. Baz wriggles, gasps. He scrapes his nails down the back of my skull, my neck, my shoulders, over my spelled-in wings.... I shiver.

“Baz?” I lean back, sitting heavily on Baz’s lap. I don’t know why, but it’s surprising to feel him there, half-hard between my legs.

“Yes, love.“ His hands are fluttering and unsure when they drop to my waist.

“I want you.”

“ _Please_.”

“Can I, um—”

“Anything. Simon—” His tongue darts out, wetting those plush grey-pink lips. “Don’t ask, please, darling, just— _mmf!”_ Baz tosses his head back as I roll my hips against his.

Fuck, he’s hot. I squeeze his chest with both hands and roll my hips again. And again. He’s well past half-hard now.

This is good. Feeling his bulge right up against mine is _good_. I can do this.

BAZ

Is Snow still intending on making me come in my pants? Because we’re treacherously close to that reality far too quickly. I drop my hands to the bed and dig my fingers in, trying to hold on—to hold _back_.

“Tell me,” Snow grunts. “Tell me what to do.”

Does he really expect me to have a single coherent thought in my head right now? While’s he’s being so unrelenting, groping and grinding, burning me alive? The only reason I’m even minimally functional is because the rigid fly of his jeans is digging into me with a level of discomfort that isn’t exclusively erotic. (The exquisite discomfort of his hands mauling my chest is another story.)

It takes me two attempts, but I finally gasp, “Hand me my wand—then pull us out of our flies.”

Snow snatches my wand from the bedside table and shoves it at me. I try to remember which side to even hold the fucking thing from while he paws at my belt and zipper. Aleister Crowley, I need to keep it together—

A truly embarrassing sound falls out of me when Snow’s fingers wriggle their inelegant way into my pants. The temperature difference between us is wildly disparate—I hiss, squirming into it, and Snow mumbles a dumbstruck, “ _Fuck_ , Baz.” A few long tugs by his searing palm is all I need to warm up to normalcy.

“Yours, too,” I remind him.

“Right—fuck, right, yeah—”

I grip the hilt of my wand tighter (ivory’s durable, thank magic) as I watch Snow release himself from the confines of his clothes. My mouth pools. I fight down the urge to ask him to straddle my face instead—

Snow is panting while he marvels at the sight of us, mere millimetres apart. “N-now what…?”

Good question. I should ask him to do this next part himself—I’m scared to touch him, even more so now that I know exactly what goes through his head when I do. But…

I lock eyes with him and hold out my hand.

Snow gulps but miraculously doesn’t hesitate. I tug him by the wrist towards my mouth. “All right?” I breathe across his skin. He nods, then watches with rounded eyes and a dropped jaw as I press my tongue flat against his palm and lick a long, wet stripe. Snow _groans_.

“ _ **Slippery when wet**_ ,” I cast, my magic shuddering out of me.

With Snow’s hand nice and slick, my work is done—I immediately go back to clutching the bedclothes to restrain myself. Snow’s breath catches as he realizes what’s now expected of him. His eyes flick back and forth between his prepped hand and our cocks—which have yet to touch, and it’s making me mental.

Snow sucks in a steadying inhale, then exhales an “okay” to himself. When he sets his jaw, I know I’m in for it.

SIMON

Rubbing my prick against Baz’s has no right feeling this good. _How_ can it feel this good? My brain’s short-circuiting. I’m holding us together with my magic-slicked hand and thrusting my hips, but it’s all disjointed because I can’t _fucking think_ —

He’s the best. He’s so good to me. He’s arching, music tumbling from his lips as he tears at the sheets. His cock is velvety and solid and flushed and warm and slippery and—

“Baz…!”

“ _Simon_ ,” he croons. “More— _oh, sweet Morgana_ —more, please, love, _more_ —”

This is all going so fast—I’m already feverishly hurtling to the finish line. Baz dribbles precome onto his belly, and that sight alone almost sets me off. I whimper. “I can’t—”

“You _can_ —”

I brace myself over Baz with my free arm and try to focus on working him faster. He stares up at me with pleading, half-lidded eyes. His mouth is hanging open as he pants out one low moan after another. He’s rocking his hips now too, speeding us along—the increased jostling is overwhelming. Pleasure spikes through me, my vision narrows—

“Touch me,” I gasp. Without meaning for it to, my tail circles around Baz’s wrist, yanking. “Baz, take me, touch me, _something_ —!”

Baz _snarls_ —and then his cold hand is suddenly on us, fumbling and manic—and then he _whines_ —and then—oh, _fuck_ , and _then_ —

I blink back to hazy awareness with my face pressed into the crook of Baz’s neck. His breathing is laboured in my ear as we both come down. I slip my sticky hand out from between us, then Baz slowly does the same; when I feel the tug of his movement on my tail, I panic, releasing him.

“Sorry—!” I push myself back on my unsteady limbs.

“No, please, please don’t apologize—”

“I mean for—for my tail.”

“I don’t care,” Baz insists, still flushed and breathing heavily. “You never have to apologize after,”—he makes a vague gesture between us—“something like this.”

I gulp, staring at his come-splattered stomach. “Okay,” I agree. I think I’d agree to anything, with him in such a state.

Baz looks where I’m looking and clears his throat. “I, ah … have some cleaning up to do.”

“Pity.”

BAZ

I am pathetically giddy as I head for the bathroom. My first order of business is taking a long moment to admire how well shagged I look in the mirror.... 

Eventually, I wash away the evidence, do up my flies and belt, smooth my jumper back down, and brush my hair into a respectable state. Perfect. No one would be the wiser. Well, if not for my self-satisfied grin.

And for the faint bruising around my wrist from his insistent tail.

Warm pleasure washes over me at the sight. I could spell it away, but the marks will fade soon enough as is—I miss them already.

I leave the bathroom before I get too caught up in reminiscing. I shouldn’t leave Simon for this long after what just happened.

I’m relieved to find him standing in the middle of the room, tightening the drawstring of his swim trunks. (They’re standard-fare: black with a stripe of sunburnt orange down the sides, the inseam offering only a hint of thigh.) The rest of his clothes are littering the floor in that way I shouldn’t love. He gives me a lopsided smile. “Hey.”

There’s no resisting him, not when he’s half-naked and giving me that look, with his hair all tousled and his skin still flushed from sex; I clear the few steps between us and set my hands on his shoulders. “All right, Snow?” I ask, pressing my lips to his hairline.

“Yeah, all right.”

“May I kiss you?”

Simon slips his hand under my hair, cupping my neck. “You don’t have to ask,” he says with a coy twinkle in his eyes. “Not for that.”

I kiss him hard. Not hurried—not even half as frenzied as what we just did. It’s a deliberate, unyielding kiss. I would throw him back onto the bed and cover him in kisses if I thought it would make him see how relentless my feelings for him are. I refrain—I can’t risk scaring him off after what we’ve just accomplished—though I’m relieved to find him dazed when I withdraw. His mouth is red and his pupils are wide. I can feel that obnoxiously self-satisfied smirk coming on again.

“Pool?” I ask, dancing my fingers across the soft hairs on his chest before pulling away entirely.

Simon blinks, jaw flapping about uselessly while I head for the dresser. He eventually succeeds in clearing his throat. “Um, y-your—” He stumbles over to our discarded clothes from yesterday and plucks up the seersucker swim shorts I wore. “It’s here.”

“Oh, no, not that one.”

He’s a new brand of confounded now. “What?”

“Those are the more modest shorts I brought for spa treatments.” I pull snug, square-leg briefs out of the drawer. They’re marine blue with a white coral pattern. I look fucking delicious in them. “These are the ones for swimming.”

Snow is still gawking. “You have swimsuits for different purposes?”

I raise my eyebrow at him. “You’re surprised by this?”

“I … no. No, actually, I guess I’m not.”

SIMON

While Baz and I technically have the hydro pool to ourselves for the next hour, the layout of the place doesn’t lend us much privacy. Not that I was intending on doing anything too scandalous, mind you, but it would be nice if I didn’t have to catch sight of the other guests now and then. (Though there is a cute, older couple currently having a blast at the ‘pedidarium’.) (Which is just a fancy foot bath, far as I can tell.) (They look really happy and in love. It makes my chest tight. In a nice way, I think. A hopeful way.)

Baz eagerly disrobed and sunk into the hydro pool the second we got here. I was disappointed—he wasn’t giving me much of a chance to see him in that new swimsuit of his—but then he got himself all comfy, floating on his back in the rippling water.

I sit on the edge of the pool, my legs hanging in, and I watch him:

Hair a dark halo around his peaceful face … long lashes against his cheeks … warm-grey skin wet and glistening in the sunbeams coming through the large windows … lean body all stretched out … the sinful shapes of him in those tight shorts, slung so much lower than the other pair…

Merlin Almighty, he’s _so fucking fit_. Every time I think I’ve got a handle on how much I want him, he knocks the breath out of me again. I can’t believe it took me so many years to piece together my feelings. Makes it all the more stupid that I’m not pouncing on him every chance I get now.

Well, except I _did_ , less than a half-hour ago, didn’t I? Pushed him down and got us both off with no trouble at all.

I bite my lip to keep from grinning too wide. I stare at his stomach—at that trail of hair I can see so much more of in this suit—recalling how good he looked with our come all over him....

Baz clears his throat, startling me. I snap my gaze up to his; he’s smirking, brow cocked, and I think he’s blushing. (I’m blushing terribly.) “Is your mind in the gutter, Snow?”

“M-might be.”

Baz sinks under the water—I hold my breath—then he pops up between my knees. He smooths back his hair with both hands and gives me a playful look. “Then why are you all the way over here?” he asks.

I swallow—Baz’s eyes fall to my throat. “Trying to resist your vampiric thrall.”

He scoffs to hide a laugh. “And why’s that?”

“There are other people around.”

“Oh,” he purrs, planting a hand on either side of my hips and pushing himself up out of the water until his mouth is only a whisper away. I grab his hips on instinct, scooting forward so I can feel him flush against me. Baz licks his lips, slings an arm around my neck, and murmurs, “I don’t think anyone will stop us if we…”

And then the tosser uses his vampiric strength and speed to yank me under the water, cackling like a villain as I sputter.

BAZ

Horsing about with Simon Snow is not a type of joy I ever thought I’d experience. Our swashbuckling in America was exhilarating; this, even more so. We’re splashing and dunking each other, without a fraction of the despair that undermined so much of our relationship those days. Having all of that behind us is indescribable. If I were any happier, I might combust.

And _Simon_ … Crowley. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen him filled with such joie de vivre. He’s rakish and ruthless, making very good use of his invisible wings and tail to best me.

This is most certainly not what this pool is meant for, not that I give a damn. A dark creature attack couldn’t pull me away.

Our foolishness soon devolves into breathy laughter and breathier kisses....

A group of women leaves the saunarium nearby, their voices reminding Simon of our lack of full privacy. I see the flash of panic in his eyes. (I briefly entertain the idea of murdering everyone in this facility so that we can be alone.) Then he huffs a soft laugh, and my heart is put mostly at ease.

Simon floats back; we both make ourselves comfortable on opposite walls of the small pool, our eyes locked. _‘I love you,’_ I want to tell him. But I don’t think I can call forth my voice—certainly not loud enough to be heard over the bubbling jets and the women’s conversation.

* * *

For the next hour, we have access to the aroma steam room where we sit across from each other on the elevated wooden benches. The room starts at a comfortable temperature, then slowly grows warmer and thicker with steam, scents of orange, marjoram, and ginger filling our lungs. Snow keeps wriggling and rubbing his nose.

Within fifteen or so minutes, Snow is uncomfortably hot. Which is a solid ten minutes longer than I thought he’d last. He’s grimacing and trying not to catch my eye, as if that somehow hides his displeasure.

“Snow.” I crook my finger, and he obeys sluggishly, coming to stand before me. His chest is right there.... I’m too muddled with relaxation and desire to hold back from nuzzling my lips into the cleft of his pectorals. “You don’t have to stay,” I say into his skin. He’s plush and salty with sweat and his heart is churning—I could die here happily. But I know this will only get more unbearable for him, so I hold back. “Go enjoy yourself; we can meet up again before lunch.” I drop a kiss on one of my favourite freckles, then I pull away.

“You’re sure?” Snow mumbles while gnawing on his lip. I reach up to rub my thumb across his mouth to discourage him. He presses a kiss to the pad of my finger.

“Yeah,” I say, even though I could really go for another ravishing. I can’t very well tell him that, though.

SIMON

I catch sight of the fading marks on Baz’s wrist from my tail. My face would burn with shame if I weren’t already boiling from this damn steam room. I lay an apologetic kiss on the spot where his pulse should be. 

“It’s okay. I like it,” he whispers.

 _Hands, teeth, brands, bonds—something_ real _—_

“Me too,” I confess.

“Good....”

I’m tempted to drag him back to the room again.

I figure that’s probably not a good idea. I feel hot and gross, which isn’t sexy at all. Besides, I didn’t spend a significant chunk of my savings (and a bit of Penny’s) just to have us spend the day in bed. Baz needs this. He’s been so good to me for so long—and he didn’t complain once in America—he deserves all the pampering this place can give him, and then some.

I can reign in my selfishness.

BAZ

Snow is hesitating.

‘ _Tell me,’_ I almost plead. _‘Tell me what you want.’_

I made a muck of things when I said that last night.

‘ _Tell me,’_ he pleaded earlier. _‘Tell me what to do.’_

I don’t know what to tell him.

He wants pressure, but not too much. He wants _me_ , but not too much.

Too much is all _I_ want.

“Go on,” I tell him, patting his cheek.

“Ah, r-right.” Snow hassles his hair and gives me a sheepish smile as he leaves.

“I love you,” I tell him, once the door has sealed shut.

* * *

When the hour’s up, I leave reluctantly. I could have stayed in there twice as long—it was lovely, feeling so warm and relaxed. Now, I feel cold and exposed. I go back to the room to pull on some real clothes.

This time, I pair my navy chinos with a pale pink shirt sparsely patterned with cherry blossoms. I spend a long while trying to get my hair looking presentable again. I nearly resort to using magic—nearly. I’m just finishing when I hear the room’s door click open; I swiftly undo the first five buttons on my shirt, a tactic I am not above using again.

“Oh, hey.” Snow grins as I step out of the bathroom. “When did you get back?”

“Not long ago.”

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Yeah,” I admit with a small smile. “It was nice.” I smile some more as Snow takes the few steps to close our distance, his eyes falling on my chest and his hands on my waist. Somehow, I resist jumping for joy. “What about you? What did you get up to?”

“Huh?” Snow flicks his gaze up from my chest. _‘No, no,’_ I almost tell him, _‘go back to being distracted by me.’_ Then his face lights up as he exclaims, “Oh! I found a nap room!”

I stare. “A nap room? Are you sure?”

“It was labelled ‘dark relaxation room’, Baz. Definitely a nap room!” He steps away with a big, showy stretch. “It was _amazing_. And now I’m starving. Lunch?”

Well, I certainly can’t compete with naps and food.

I’m smiling again. “Yeah, lunch sounds good.”

SIMON

I get back into my clothes (with Baz’s help to tuck away my wings). Then we spend the afternoon being as indulgent as possible.

We take lunch in the lounge, which is decked out similarly to the dining room: every seating option is fat, tufted leather, but instead of vibrant oranges and greens, the palette here is made of taupe and sage. There’s a big bar at one end and bookshelves at the other. Between the food, drinks, and books, Baz and I are set for hours.

Come mid-afternoon, Baz coerces me into joining him for his manicure and pedicure, which is probably the weirdest fucking thing I’ve ever done in my life, and I’ve done some weird things. Baz is loving it—he’s always loved watching me get tortured. The spa attendants can’t stop cooing over me, and Baz does a piss poor job of hiding his evil snickering.

I grab Baz by the wrist the second we’re done. It’s hard to be properly intimidating as I haul him down the corridor because I’ve got some shit wedged between my toes while the _polish_ dries—clear polish, but still! Baz is laughing, except he’s waddling from it too, so fuck him.

The nap room is empty when I shove him into it. I hadn’t really planned out what I’d do if it wasn’t. I haven’t planned any of this. All I know is I’ve got him pinned up against the wall, and I’m jittery with frustration, and it feels _so fucking good_.

“You’re such a prick,” I growl before latching on to the soft spot under the curve of his jaw and sucking hard.

Baz gasps. I snatch up his other wrist as well, trapping both of his hands to the wall above his head. He strains and purrs, “Well, if this is what being a prick gets me— _mmn!_ ” I pop my mouth off his neck and search out a new spot to mark. He rolls his body, so I press him to the wall harder as I work on a second hickey.

Once I’m confident I’ve left three impressive bruises on Baz’s porcelain skin, I release him, stepping back to admire my handiwork. The room is dark, but I can just make out how debauched he is.

“ _Simon_ …”

I want to drop to my knees, but I can’t, not here. Besides, for as much as Baz deserves all this pampering, he also deserves some payback for the times he’s teased me today.

I clear my throat. “Well! Time for tea, I think.” I adjust myself in my jeans, then I leave him there, dazed and breathless.

* * *

Baz is simmering when he joins me for tea, which _maybe_ shouldn’t excite me as much as it does, but here we are. He’s spelled away the hickey under his jaw, but given the way his shirt is completely buttoned up now, I’m guessing he left the other two as souvenirs. Fuck....

At least the tea does a good job in calming us down—it’s not long before we’re back to comfortably chatting. Then, we decide to go for a walk—but not before Baz switches out his trousers for jeans and puts on the poshest trainers I’ve ever seen. I borrow Baz’s grey jumper from earlier to keep warm—he gives me a long once-over at that—and Baz dons a light grey spring jacket with blue gingham lining.

He really did bring an entire wardrobe with him. It’s like he’s trying to make up for losing most of his clothes in America. Which I feel kind of bad about still, so I don’t tease him for it.

I _do_ tease him when we find the ‘Wild Discovery’ animal centre along our walking trail. I ask him if he knows how each one tastes, and I give him such a ribbing over the sebas bats that he whacks me over the head. We nearly get into a full-on scuffle, but then we realize we’ve got a bit of an audience and this might be considered a domestic and I don’t want anyone thinking we’re _that_ fucked up. We slink away, half-laughing, half-embarrassed.

We stumble upon a bowling green and decide to play. Baz tries to explain the rules to me as we go, but it’s so stupid, I can’t take it seriously. And then it turns out I’m the stupid one, because he’s completely making up the rules on the fly just to mess with me. I wouldn’t’ve even realized if he hadn’t caved to laughter.

I don’t think we’ve ever had this much fun together. Makes me a little sad to think about, but more than anything, it makes me _happy_.

We’re going to be okay, I think. Sure, tomorrow we’ll drive back to London and life will go back to normal. But … that doesn’t mean our walls will go back up … right?

I should tell him I love him.

Not right now. Tonight. At some point. When the timing’s right.

Before we know it, the sun is going down. We take the long way back around, hand in hand. Baz leads me into the privacy of the trees where we have a leisurely snog as we bask in the warm sunset.

* * *

I eat way too much at dinner. Baz tells me not to get dessert, so I order two just to spite him. Judging by how many bites he steals from me, I’m wondering if that wasn’t exactly his plan.

Can’t blame my waddling on toenail polish this time—I'm sporting a serious food baby. I flop on my back onto the bed when we return to the room. “You were right,” I groan. “Ate too much.”

Baz laughs. “Does that mean tempting you with that bottle of champagne would be a bad idea?”

I push myself onto my elbows. “I didn’t say that.” When Baz plucks the bottle from its ice bath, I stop him: “Wait, let’s bring it with us!”

“Bring it where?”

I give him a big grin. “We’ve still got one more activity booked.”

* * *

We each take a turn in the shower. I don’t tell Baz where we’re going, only that he’ll need his swimsuit again, so he opts for the ‘modest’ shorts from yesterday. They show more thigh than they cover, so there’s still plenty to look at—without, you know, all his _details_ on display to torment me. (My overly-full belly is on display though, and I regret everything.)

Baz has that _I’m-delighted-and-trying-to-hide-it_ look on his face as I lead us to our destination. That is, until we step out into the chilly night air. He immediately bristles.

“It’ll be fine,” I say before he can complain.

He does anyway: “It’s cold out here, Snow.”

“It’ll be _fine_.” I tug him across the deck of the Zen garden towards a small hot tub in a secluded spot. It’s bubbling and steaming. “See? You’ll be warm once you get in.”

Baz’s teeth are already chattering. “The part of me above the water won’t be.”

I toss down our towels and snag the champagne bottle and flutes from him. “Look at it, it’s all steamy! You’ll be perfectly toasty.”

He shoots me a withering glare. “Wonderful, then I can be even colder when we get out.”

“You’re a mage,” I say. I’m trying not to get annoyed with him, I really am— I fuss with the cork on the bottle. “Cast a weatherisation spell or something. And stop whinging.”

“I’m _not_ whinging. I’m _freezing_.”

“Then get in already!”

The cork pops. Most of the champagne fizzes over, splashing onto the deck.

Miracle of all fucking miracles, Baz doesn’t say anything about it, just takes off his robe and lets out a long hiss as he sinks into the tub as fast as possible. I focus on filling our glasses. As the bubbles settle, I realize it’s an uneven pour; I set the emptier one down on the deck near Baz because he doesn’t like drinking all that much anyway—and because I’m miffed at him.

BAZ

I’m a fucking idiot.

Simon Snow wants to enjoy champagne and a hot tub under the stars with me, and I act like a petulant git. I just can’t miss the opportunity to sabotage things for myself, can I? There hasn’t been a need for me to lash out when my feelings get overwhelming in a long while now, but … old habits, and all that....

I should tell him I’m sorry. I don’t really do that, though—apologize. Not in so many words, anyway. I opt for giving him a soft look as he settles into the water across from me and hope he understands.

Snow sets his jaw. He averts his eyes. It hurts. In a bad way.

I should tell him.

He speaks before I can find my voice: “Can you unspell my wings?”

“Of course.” I nearly topple my champagne flute in my eagerness to grab my wand from my robe pocket. _**“As you were,”**_ I cast.

Snow’s wings shimmer back into view. He stretches them wide and gives me a small smile that I don’t deserve.

“Baz,” he says, reaching out to me. “Come here.”

SIMON

_Come here._

_Come on._

He’s just staring at me.

_Please._

And then … he smiles, puts his hand in mine, and slips close, kissing me.

He lets us have this.

BAZ

I kiss him and hope he understands.

“Baz,” Simon sighs against my lips.

“Anything,” I tell him.

“Everything,” he says.

I kiss him again.

_Everything...._

_Can you handle my definition of ‘everything’, Simon Snow?_

_Can you rise to that challenge?_

The spade of Simon’s tale scrapes it’s way up my calf, surprising me. He apologizes, so I grab it, wrapping it around my wrist.

That makes him kiss me hard enough to see stars.

The thought makes me laugh.

“What?” he baulks.

“Nothing.” Crowley, I’m practically _giggling_. I kiss his cheek. “This is lovely, Simon, thank you.”

“You’re not cold?”

“Only the slightest chill on my shoulders; you were right, the steam is very helpful,” I concede. “But just to be safe…” I cast **hot stuff** on myself.

Simon smirks. “Don’t need a spell for that.”

I’d be blushing even without the spell. “I didn’t want to cast something that would make _you_ warmer, as well.”

“Thanks, love,” he says. My stomach does a somersault.

We get comfortable side by side, sipping our champagne and idly chatting about nothing important. Simon tops me off with the remnants of the bottle. It’s all very relaxing.

Once our empty glasses are set aside, we manage to press even closer, shoulder to knee. His wing curls around my back—one of the joints is digging in, but I don’t care. We fall comfortably silent, looking up and resting our temples against each other. Simon points out the stars as if I don’t see them.

And then I realize with stunning clarity just how far we’ve come.

SIMON

Baz relaxes against me, leaning hard, so I lean back. We keep each other propped up and stare at the stars.

Does he know? What all this means to me?

I should tell him, make sure he gets it.

I’ve not got my mobile with me. I know how I feel and what I want, but I don’t know how to say it _out loud_.

I can’t make it real if I don’t say it.

_Use your words._

Baz leans a little harder. He can probably feel my heart pounding.

I stare at the stars … and I take a breath.

“That was the point-of-no-return for me,” I whisper.

“What do you mean?” Baz’s voice is soft like mine.

“That night in our room, when I shared my magic with you, and you brought down the stars.”

“I know which moment you meant,” Baz says. “It’s the other part I want clarification on.”

“Right.” I swallow. It seems aggressively loud in all this quiet. “Um. I guess…well. I’ve liked you a long time. I’ve always been obsessed with you. Wanted you. Even though I didn’t know it. I didn’t even know it that night, but that … that was the moment where it all felt … _big_.”

“…‘big’?”

I chew on my lip and try to think of a less stupid way of explaining it. There’s this one star that’s blinking real steady—suppose that makes it a plane or summat, not a star—and I feel like it’s cheering me on. “Bigger than me. Or my magic.” I say. “Bigger than anything I could contain. Limitless....”

Baz exhales shakily. His fingers find mine under the water and I grip him tight. We’re otherwise still, silent. Staring at the stars.

After a few minutes, Baz readies himself with a deep inhale.

“When we were twelve,” he begins so, _so_ slowly, “we were both at our desks in our room. There was no reason for it—I simply looked at you and was overtaken with the urge to kiss the mole on your cheek.”

“ _Fuck…_ ,” I say. Because what else do you say to that? Twelve. Fucking _twelve_ —

“I did my best to ignore it,” Baz continues, unhurried. “Then fifth year came along. It was so much worse, and you wouldn’t leave me alone,”—he squeezes my hand—“so I finally had to come to terms with it.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmur up to the stars. “I didn’t know.”

“Yeah,” Baz murmurs back, “I worked hard to keep it that way.”

Baz had told me that night in Hampshire that he’s wanted me for a long time. I thought he meant a few months or something, not _years_ … not since _second_ year. He never let on. Even now, I still don’t know what he _really_ feels for me. He’s never said it, not clearly, not in a way that makes me feel _sure_.

I’ve never said it either, though.

‘ _I love you.’_

I tighten my grip on his hand. We’ve been staring up at the stars so long, I’m lost in them. They feel close, like that night—like the night in Shep’s truck, too. Like I could reach out, grab the blanket of them, and wrap us up in it. They feel … _I_ feel…

‘ _I love you.’_

I could say it. Right now.

What am I waiting for?

‘ _I love you, Baz.’_

I scan my eyes about. I’m searching for that winking star—plane, satellite, whatever—but I’m not able to spot it.

My neck can’t take this any more. I gently tip my chin back down, not wanting to jar Baz too much. I’m not sure if it startles him or what, but suddenly he’s wrenching himself around to face me. He grabs my other hand too, urging me to turn towards him. (I do.)

“Simon, I—” he blurts. Then sucks in a breath and holds it. My heart’s thudding hard—he’d probably be able to feel it in my fingertips even if he weren’t a vampire. Baz licks his lips and tries again. “I should have told you. There have been so many times I should have told you. Practically a whole bloody decade’s worth.” (Fuck, I hadn’t actually done the maths.) “The past two years, especially. I—” Baz falters, the bit of bluster he’s built up already dying out. He looks away, frowning. “I’ve been … too ashamed.”

“What? Ashamed of what?”

“Of … the depth of my feelings,” Baz confesses. “I’ve feared my wholeheartedness would drive you away. Because,”—he meets my eyes again—“that’s what it is—my whole heart. For whatever that’s worth from a vampire. More than that: Simon Snow, I love you with everything I am.”

I’m overwhelmed before I even process it.

Baz loves me.

I’ve got no magic—the thing he loves most in the whole world. I gave it up, and I’m left with fucked up mutant appendages and more baggage than we know what to do with. I’m not the twelve year old he got a crush on, or the fifteen year old who stalked him, or the eighteen year old who kissed him in a burning forest.

“You’re— Simon, you—”

I try to keep it together, hold back all the—all the _everything_ threatening to punch its way out of me—all the messy feelings I don’t know the words for. But I can’t hold back from asking, “Even now?” My voice is thready.

“Now _especially_ ,” Baz stresses, pulling my hands closer to him. “I find new ways to love you all the time.”

I think I’m about to cry. My throat’s tight and my eyes are prickling. All my blood’s pounding in my face—

Baz loves me.

No one’s ever said that to me before.

I don’t think I realized that until I heard the words.

Penny and I love each other, but we’ve never said it. I told Agatha I loved her (I thought I did), but she never said it back. And it’s not like I’ve had any family around to say it.

Baz loves me.

He lifts our hands out of the water and knocks my chin up. We’re already eye-to-eye, sat like this, but I know what he’s doing. “I told you that I wouldn’t change my mind,” he says.

“Is that what you were trying to say at the ball? That you love me?”

“Yes.” Baz glances away, brow furrowing. “I thought I could make you understand … without … having to _say_ it.”

“You know I’m too stupid for that poetic shit.”

“Oh, really? Then I can be as poetic as I like without fear of scaring you away, can’t I?”

I lean in. “Yeah.”

“All right.” Baz kisses the knuckles on my one hand and nudges my other to cup his cheek, holding my touch there. (Our fingers are getting pruney, though it’s hard to care right now.) “I don’t need to look at the sky to see the stars, Simon Snow; I don’t need magic, either. All the constellations of any importance are on your skin.” The intensity of Baz’s eyes makes me feel all choked up again. I think … I think this is the first time I’ve felt _so seen_ without it throwing me into a panic. It’s still embarrassing and _terrifying_ —but it’s … _good_. And the good outweighs the rest, somehow. He’s so earnest, staring at me like that and kissing my palm while he murmurs, “You’re the centre of my universe. You’re the only light I need.”

“ _Christ._ ” I take Baz’s face into both my hands and press our foreheads together. “Where do you get this stuff from? You can say all that gooey shit, but it’s the simple bits you struggle with?”

“Pot, kettle,” Baz mutters.

I laugh again. “That’s not the same, I struggle with _all of it_.” I bump my nose against his. “Say it again.”

“I … which part…?”

“The simple part.”

I close my eyes and just listen: “I love you, Simon.”

It’s addictive—like everything else with Baz. I’ve got what I’ve been aching for, and now I’m desperate for more. I’m never letting him go—

BAZ

Simon jerks back from me suddenly, obliterating the tender moment.

“I’m such a tit,” he proclaims. He grabs my shoulders and levels me with a zealous glint in his eye that’s rather unnerving. His words come out in a rush: “Baz, I’m sorry— _shit_ —I’ve been holding off because it never felt like the right time—but that’s crap—it’s because I’ve been a right fucking coward—been too scared to tell you that I love you because I didn’t want to make you feel— _I don’t know_ —I didn’t want you to feel sorry for me—and I definitely didn’t want to make you feel even _more_ obligated to stay with me than you already do—I know how loyal you are—the last thing I want is for you to stick with me out of loyalty—I’d seriously rather die—and I’m just—I’m so fucking scared of how I feel and how it might make you feel trapped—”

“ _Simon_.”

He stares at me, mouth open, his breath and pulse wild. He swallows. “What?”

“Say it again.” I settle my hand on his chest to feel the thrum of him. I’m shaking. He’s blinking at me stupidly, so I clarify, “The simple part.”

He takes a steadying breath … then he laughs. And then he pulls me against him into a crushing embrace with his cheek smashed against my hair.

“I love you,” he says. It’s the most solid his voice has sounded in forever.

I circle my arms around his waist. If I’m clinging too tightly, he doesn’t let on.

“I’ve loved you for a long time, Baz.”

I bury my face into the crook of his neck.

“I’ve said it in my head to you a thousand times.”

It seems pitifully maudlin to be crying right now—for the second time today, no less. Simon’s always been the bigger crier between the two of us.

I think tonight is the first time his tears have brought me any pleasure since fourth year.

“I should have told you sooner, Baz. Sorry.”

“I’m sorry, as well,” I admit into his wet skin. (At least the evidence of my tears will be indiscernible from the water all around us.) “I should have said it clearly.”

Impossibly, Simon tightens his hold. “We’ve done it now. That’s what matters.”

 _Is love just socially-accepted masochism?_ I wonder. It certainly feels that way. My chest aches, and I’m struggling to breathe. It’s good I’m not alive enough to have cause for concern.

I’m only just calming down when Simon shifts us apart so he can set those impassioned eyes on me again. I hope he can’t tell I was crying—I straighten up and do my best to look imperious.

“Baz,” he begins, “you said ... you said you were ashamed, yeah?”

Ugh, he _can_ tell I was crying, can’t he? I sniff. “Well....” I’m not sure how I want to play this. My head’s all jumbled and I’m trembling.

Simon doesn’t allow me the chance to get my thoughts in order. “I’m not ... I want ... I want you to stop holding back from me, all right? I really mean it. I love you and want you—and, and you love and want me, right? What the fuck are we _doing_? Why are we limiting ourselves? How many times over now could we have skipped the suffering and just, just let ourselves _have_ this?”

I consider him carefully. “You’re suggesting emotional and physical vulnerability—you do realize that, yes?”

Simon releases me to muck up his hair. “I mean? I guess? Sort of. What I’m saying is—is I do a lot better when you let loose. Like, when you really commit to the moment with me. So I can’t second-guess it. Feeling ... _loved_ and _wanted_ , it’s—it’s not as terrifying when I _really_ feel it. When I’m _sure._ ”

I watch him, this handsome, foolhardy man dripping with starlight and sincerity. I finally managed to say the words—to say them _first—_ and he’s still the braver one of us.

“All right,” I concede. “I’ll tell you. And show you. In ways you can believe.”

Simon gifts me a crooked smile. “Yeah? Okay. Good. I like this soppy side of you. Balances out what an arsehole you usually are.”

“You don’t get to pick and choose,” I tut. “If the limits are off, then they’re off.”

Simon shoves my shoulder. “I can handle you, Pitch.”

I grab his elbow and yank him to me. “Are you sure of that, Snow?”

“Getting there,” he admits with a damnable twinkle in his eye. Then he presses his mouth to mine.

His lips are so soft.... All of him’s soft.... I run my touch along his sides, dipping in and out of the water. Simon hums into the kiss. His wings bump into me as he folds them around us and gets his fingers all knotted up in my hair. He’s a brute even when he’s being delicate. He drives me wild.

I pull away in order to recast my warming spell. I don’t actually want to stay in here any longer, but I’m loath to cut this beautiful night short before Simon’s ready. And he’s most certainly not ready: I do a shit job of casting because he won’t relinquish my mouth. Oh well, I’m warm enough.

It’s either minutes or millennia later when we part. Simon sighs like one of those lovesick leading men you see in romance films, hanging his head back to ponder the stars. I’m disgustingly besotted with the entire scene. I can’t take my eyes off him.

Simon’s voice is soft yet solid when he muses, “Love’s not like magic, is it?”

“How do you mean?”

“You don’t need to worry about loving too much. You can’t waste it. You can’t use it for evil. And you can’t use more than your fair share.” He falls quiet, but I can see his gears still turning, so I wait. My patience is rewarded: “It’s more like light,” he continues, “it’s just _there._ Might take a while to reach you, but it’ll come. And that’s scary, innit? Everything all lit up. You need time to adjust. But once you do … you’re not going to get sick of it. No one gets sick of the sun or other stars, not _really._ ” Simon heaves a shrug and drops his gaze back to me. “Fitting,” he whispers. “I’d never cared much about the stars until that night with you.”

There’s the slightest crinkle around his eyes and lips, the barely-there evidence of a smile that somehow manages to leave me breathless.

_Great snakes...._

I swallow down the lump in my throat.

“Excuse me,” I drawl, squinting at him, “who are you, and what have you done with my self-professed terrible boyfriend who refers to poetic expressions from the heart as ‘soppy, gooey shit’?”

Simon’s smile brightens. “Maybe you’re rubbing off on me,” he chuckles.

“Mm, we did progress to as much earlier, didn’t we?”

Now he’s blushing and full-on grinning. It’s blinding.

We kiss until my spell wears off again—far faster this time. I pull back and consider casting it once more. Simon immediately breaks into a massive yawn.

“We should probably head inside,” he says through it. “I’m wiped.”

“Oh, thank magic—” I launch myself out of the bath, grabbing for my towel and robe as I stifle my own yawn.

“Eager much?”

“Yes,” I groan, “my bollocks are shrivelled up, and I’m so waterlogged, I’m bloated.”

Snow grimaces as he towels off and shakes the water from his wings like a dog. “You sure know how to talk dirty to a bloke.”

I arch my brow. “I thought you were tired.”

“I am.” Snow hooks his arm in mine. “Come on, baby,” he practically coos, “take me to bed in a non-sexual way.”

I laugh and drag him along.

SIMON

I really was tired. I felt all lazy and overheated from the hot tub. The fading adrenaline rush from our conversation exhausted me even more.

But the walk back to the room revitalizes me. And Baz stepping out of the loo with his pyjama bottoms hanging low on his hips and his shirt unbuttoned is definitely a sight to perk up over. I can just barely make out the two fading bruises along his collarbone.

Baz crosses to the small desk near the window where we’ve got his cooler. I’m sat on the bed in my joggers, watching him heat up his pig’s blood and drink it down. I keep watching as he heads back to the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he starts crossing the room again and reaching for his buttons, I pounce, crowding him against the desk and grabbing his hands before he can cover up. He gives me a haughty look.

“Can I help you, Snow?”

“I take it back. I’m not tired.”

Baz’s gaze flashes, sending a thrill through me. “What do you suggest we do about that?”

“Well…” I gulp. “If I—if _we—_ I mean, _hypothetically_ …”

“I’m listening.”

“I-if we … were to, you know, have, um, sex—h-how would, I mean, how would that … _work_?”

Freshly fed as he is, Baz goes red faster than I’ve ever seen. “You—you want to—?”

“Hypothetically,” I remind. My hands are clammy in his, but I force myself not to pull away.

He clears his throat. “ _Hypothetically_ , Snow, there are several ways to go about that sort of thing—”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?” He’s being difficult on purpose again, the twat. I grunt and try to step back, but Baz won’t release my hands. “W-wait. Simon, I—I’m serious; we could go about it however you want.”

I shake my head. “I want to know what _you_ want.”

“Are you asking for my preference…?”

“ _Yes_.”

Baz drops one of my hands to smooth back his hair. He’s dead frazzled. “I, ah, would enjoy it either way. Having me … on the receiving end would likely be the easiest way of going about things, to start.”

My face is on fire. “Is that what you _want_?”

“I … yeah.”

I kiss him. I don’t know what else to do. And it’s always worked well for us so far. It’s only a press of lips and a hint of teeth. Baz is beautifully stunned when we break apart.

“Can we try?” I ask.

“You … want to try having sex?”

“Yeah. Do you?”

“Y—” Baz’s voice catches—he tries not to wince. “Yes.”

Merlin, I’ve really thrown him off balance with this. His hands are shaking in mine. Perfect _imperfect_ Basilton Pitch, crumbling from the conversation alone and melting against me as I shove another kiss to his mouth. I love this. I love him.

“I love you,” I say, because I can say that now.

Baz sighs, “I love you, too,” then reaches for my mouth with his.

We snog up against the desk, with me slotted between Baz’s legs. His hands are in my hair and mine are in his shirt.

I’m practically vibrating with the high from everything that’s happened tonight. I feel like a car battery jolted back to life. I’m buzzing. It’s like having magic under my skin again, but for once that feels more _exciting_ than it does dangerous.

As Baz trails open-mouthed kisses down my neck, I can’t stop from saying another “I love you.” It’s like when spells would just fall out of me. I’m spilling over with it. It’s pressure from the inside out, straining against my edges, trying to escape. It’s too much—I need to give it to him—I need to push what’s in me into _him_ —

“I brought condoms,” I blurt.

Baz leans away from the payback hickey he’s been working on. “You…?”

“Penny said we’d need them.”

“You discussed this with Penelope?”

“She’s my best mate.”

“Right.” Baz looks like he’s going to choke on his tongue. “Have you ever—? With … with Wellbelove—with _anyone_ —have you ever—?”

“There was no one other than Agatha,” I say in a rush, “and we never got below the waist.”

Baz rubs a hand over his mouth in a poor attempt at hiding his grin. “I—for me, there’s—there’s only ever been you.” (I think I knew that but it feels _amazing_ to hear him say it.) “So, we don’t … unless you _want_ to use a condom, we don’t…”

“We don’t … have to?” Am I following this right? Penny made it sound way more important than they did in SRE at Watford. (She even said we need them for blowies, but that ship’s sailed.)

“We don’t have to,” Baz agrees. “There’s a spell, if you’d like, but—Simon, I’m a vampire, I can’t—I can’t get sick. I don’t carry disease.”

My throat feels very, very dry. “So just … you and me, then…? Nothing in between…?”

Baz is staring at me like _he’s_ the one about to go off. “Yeah.”

 _Fuck_.

I kiss him hard enough to bend him back over the desk. We groan into each other’s mouths as our bodies slide together, and I realize this is the first time I’ve felt his skin against mine like this. Not because we’re in swimsuits with the convenient excuse of pools and hot tubs to carry us through—just proper bare chest against bare chest because we’ve progressed this far.

Heart against heart.

BAZ

“We’re going to break the table,” I croak as Simon grinds his hips against mine.

He tugs on my earlobe with his teeth. “Don’t care.”

“ _I’ll_ care when there are splinters in my arse.”

I give his shoulder a small shove, but he doesn’t budge, just finds a new spot on my neck to maul. (Crowley, he’s insatiable.) (I’m not complaining.) I shove him again, using a bit of that strength I usually suppress. Simon stumbles back with wide eyes and red cheeks. _Interesting...._

I pluck up my wand and spell the lights off. Simon huffs. His eyes will adjust quickly—there’s plenty of light coming through the sheer curtains. Besides, I think he’ll appreciate the intimacy of the darkness once we actually get going....

“Take those off,” I say, pointing my wand at his joggers before tossing it onto the bed for later. I slip out of my pyjama shirt. Simon runs his gaze down my body.

“Yours, too,” he says with a jut of his chin at my crotch.

“Fine. Together, then.”

Neither one of us is wearing pants, so we make particularly quick work of it.

Well. I suppose it’s not quick at all. Two years in the making.

A _decade_ in the making....

And here we are, standing naked together. Close enough to touch.

 _Can_ I touch? Will he let me, now?

“ _Fuck_ ,” Simon breathes, that one word filled with such unfathomable reverence, it wipes away all my thoughts. His hands and lips start at my face and then slowly work their way down.... “Beautiful. So fucking beautiful. Oh, Baz. Baz, Baz. Christ. Look at you. So hot. So lovely.” Each word, sealed with a kiss, feels like a brand on my skin. It’s better than any fantasy. It’s painfully, wonderfully real.

I shiver as he nuzzles into the hair at the base of my cock. “I love you,” is the last thing he sears me with before sliding his mouth down my length.

Who knew a blow job could be so tender?

I comb my trembling hands through his curls as he expertly rocks his lips along me—his skill with his mouth is not exclusive to kisses. He meets my eyes while hollowing out his cheeks, and my knees almost buckle. When his roaming hands start gently kneading my arse, I know I’m about to be done for.

“Wait, love—”

Simon groans and pulls me in deeper. _Shit_ —

I fist my hand in his hair, urging his head off as I snap my hips back. A shudder seizes me, but nothing more. I breathe hard, watching him watch me.

“You nightmare,” I hiss.

Simon licks his lips. “Sorry,” he says, not sorry at all. In fact, I think he’s terribly pleased by the whole thing.... I give his hair a tug before releasing him—he emits a soft moan.

_Noted._

“Come along, Snow.”

He jumps up. I crawl onto the bed with him right at my side, not missing a beat. He half-hovers over me like he did this morning. It feels like a lifetime ago.

“Now what?” he asks, staring into me with his blue eyes all lit up from anxiety and unmistakable excitement.

“Do you know how this works between two men?”

“Yeah. I mean— _yeah_.”

“So then you know that I … need stretching.” I am extremely grateful that I had the optimistic forethought to tidy up in the bathroom earlier. (An endeavour that has always gone to waste in the past—no longer, it seems.) This conversation is hard enough as it is; I wouldn't be able to handle also needing to explain basic anal sex sanitary concerns with him.

I relish in the sight of Simon’s showy gulp before he stammers, “Should I…? _Can_ I…?”

“Do you want—?”

“Do _you_ want?”

“I—yes. Always.”

Snow smirks. “Always?”

I cover my face with a hand. “Shut up and do it if you’re going to do it.”

SIMON

Baz is embarrassed, which is sweet but nerve-racking. He’s out of his element as much as I am, but I’m counting on him to lead me on all this.

So far so good, at least. We’ve spelled my fingers wet. (“ _Lick them yourself since you seem so eager to suck on something,_ ” he told me.) And he seems to be liking the way I’m rubbing slow circles over his entrance.

He nudges his hips against my hand with a needy little sound, so I figure now’s as good a time as any. I kiss his forehead and start pushing. Baz gasps out a “yes” as I sink my finger all the way into the plush heat of him.

_Holy shit._

“All right?” I ask.

The look Baz pins me with is heavy with desire. “ _Very_.”

I watch every shift of his expression as I withdraw … then push back in. His eyes fall closed and his mouth drops open on a lusty moan. He keeps moaning—low, breathy sounds with every thrust. I’m trying to be careful—I can’t really comprehend what he’s feeling—but then Baz’s hips start moving in a way that makes me hungry for more.

I kiss his breathless lips and prod him with a second finger. “You want another, sweetheart?”

“And then some,” he groans. My cock throbs.

It doesn’t take long for me to get Baz all sheened with sweat as he writhes on three of my fingers. If I curl them just right, his thighs start quaking. I have to look away otherwise I might come on the spot. I mainly watch his lovely face: eyes closed, cheeks flushed with pleasure, lips wet and well-bitten because I just can’t resist him for long.

“Simon,” he gasps, “that’s enough—”

I don’t want to risk hurting him somehow, so I listen right away this time, stilling my hand. He takes a moment to breathe. I don’t move—I just enjoy the sensation of his body trembling around me. I wonder if it’s his pulse I’m feeling fluttering in there. The thought’s a bit spooky but … also really nice....

Baz sets his stormy eyes on me. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’m ready.”

“Oh. Right. So....”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“…ready.”

Oh.

That’s a good fucking question, innit?

BAZ

This position is terrifying. And mortifying. And I might be losing my erection some. Which isn’t important, so long as Simon isn’t losing his. Besides, if this goes well—I’m praying to all the poets that this goes well—then I’ll be back at full-mast in no time.

For now, though…

I’m on my elbows and knees and trying very hard not to spontaneously combust while Simon finishes lubricating himself.

This position is terrifying, but it was a good choice. It will keep me from being able to see him or touch him, which means he’ll hopefully feel more comfortable. I know I won’t be able to resist grabbing him otherwise. (If we get through this and decide to have sex again some day, perhaps I’ll have him fasten my hands to the bedposts.) And supposedly this is a good position for beginners—smooth entry. Unfortunately, it puts all of the pace-setting in Simon’s hands, but I trust him, so it’s fine.

Is _he_ fine?

Simon has one sweaty hand on my hip and the other is still fumbling with his prick. His vitals are erratic. I hope he’s not panicking.

 _Please don’t let him be panicking_ —

(I might be.) (Panicking.) (No, I’m fine. I’m fine—)

There’s a brush of something against my rim and then a faint pressure. I gasp—Simon squeezes my hip.

“All right, Baz?”

“Yeah,” I say. He’s not pushing yet, just resting what must be the head of his cock against me. “Go on. When—whenever you want.”

“Okay.” He sounds so unsure—it makes my stomach clench uncomfortably.

Actual pressure now. I hold my breath. His heart is pounding in my skull.

_Too much._

More pressure. His grip is digging into my hip.

 _This is what you wanted_ , I tell myself. _You’ve been lamenting not having this for years and years._

A twinge of pain. I flinch. His breathing is too shallow.

_No, this isn’t what I wanted. I want to be facing him. Touching, kissing, wrapped up in each other, whispering in his ear, with my cock trapped between our bellies and his breath hot on my neck._

Too much pressure—I’ve clenched up—and he’s definitely panicking.

_Too much, too much—_

This is the worst possible version of ‘too much’.

I’m a fucking idiot.

SIMON

“Wait!”

I freeze, my blood running cold. _Oh fuck, oh God, what did I do wrong—?_

Baz looks over his shoulder at me. “It’s okay, love,” he’s quick to say. “I just—I need a different position.”

“Did I hurt you?” My voice comes out all wobbly.

“No, don’t worry; you didn’t do anything wrong. If you pull out, I can—”

I pull out—immediately. Baz makes an “ _eep_ ” sound. “Did _that_ hurt?” I yelp.

“No, no!” He shifts around, and now we’re kneeling in front of each other, and he’s staring down at my prick that’s getting softer by the second. “How … how much was in…?”

“Not much.” I look down. Baz is soft, too. Which makes me feel worse, actually. “Not more than half my head.” Baz laughs, and I bluster. “Why are you laughing?”

He covers his face. “It felt like a lot,” he chuckles. And then he throws his arms around my neck. I can feel a smile lingering on his lips as he nuzzles against my cheek. “I’m sorry. I fucked up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We said no holding back, right?” Baz hugs me close. I nod and put my arms around his waist even though I have no idea what’s happening. “I have been, though. I’m still putting limitations on how much of you I’ll let myself have. You’ve been making me feel so incredible, beautiful, _loved_ , and I’ve been an idiot.” Baz’s hands trail down to the joints of my wings, gently rubbing the tension there. I shiver and hold him tighter. “We agreed to be honest, right?” I nod. “And you want to know what I want, right?” I nod again. “No limits?”

“No limits,” I agree.

“Good.” Baz leans back enough to lock eyes with me. His gaze is sharp, almost predatory. “Here’s what’s going to happen: I’m going to tell you to do things. If you want to do them, do it. If you don’t want to do something, you tell me ‘no’, and I’ll drop it. If anything starts getting too much for you, you’re going to tell me ‘slow down’, and I will. If you need me to stop, you’re going to tell me ‘stop’, and I will. And if there’s something you want that I’m not providing, you’ll tell me. That’s it. No constantly needing to check in and worry about each other. No shame. No apologies. No self-imposed limits. Just concise words with clear meanings. Understood?”

I gawk at him.

Baz cocks his brow into position and it’s enough to make me jump.

“Understood!” I blurt.

The tension leaves his face—now he’s _definitely_ looking predatory. And very flushed. “Good. Repeat it back to me.”

I do, stammering all the while, but I don’t fuck it up. That’s the point. It’s fairly unfuckupable.

Concise words with clear meanings. Words I don’t have to struggle with.

Baz kisses me like it’s a reward. “Perfect, Simon,” he tells me. “I love you.”

_Merlin Almighty...._

BAZ

I’m a fucking genius.

SIMON

This is familiar.

I’m lying back amongst the pillows, my wings well supported. Baz is lounging at an angle to me, planting kisses down the underside of my prick. His hips are close enough that I can reach between his legs, but just far enough that I know no amount of twisting will get my mouth there also.

He’s got me right where he wants me.

* * *

_"Step one,” Baz said as he brought my (spelled-cleaned) fingers to his lips, “is you get these fingers back inside me.” He dragged his tongue along my index finger. “You’re going to keep them in there to hold your spot,”—his other hand trailed down to cup me—“while I work on step two: getting you nice and hard again with my mouth. I won’t stop until you_ ache _, love.” Then he gave my finger a promising suck. “Understood?”_

* * *

We’re making very good progress on both steps.

I wriggle a second finger into Baz; he hums a note of pleasure with my tip wrapped in his lips. I grunt, trying and failing to get more of myself in his mouth—he’s pinning my hips to the bed too successfully. Which is the point, obviously, but it just makes me want to try _more_. It’s not fair that he gets to move his hips freely, grinding onto my fingers, when I’m restrained. (I _know_ it’s to keep me from getting my dick skewered on vampire fangs—it’s just really hard to care in the moment.)

Baz slowly pumps his hand along me and laps at my precome. “You taste delicious,” he says, cool breath wafting over me.

“Yeah…?”

Baz slides his mouth down half my length. Answer enough, I figure. I moan.

I try to focus on working my fingers in and out of Baz—it’s impossible to concentrate. My cock’s in one end of him and my fingers are in the other. It’s blindingly overwhelming. Everything’s slick and tight.

I squirm, but it’s useless.

I want to get inside him all the way, but I can’t.

Because he’s holding me in place. And he’s not ready. And he hasn’t told me step three yet.

He’s got me right where he wants me.

He’s completely in control.

“Stop,” I tell him.

Baz’s mouth is off my cock in an instant, his piercing eyes searching mine. He’s holding his breath, and I’m breathing hard.

“Go,” I tell him.

Baz squints, then lowers his wet lips down me a millimetre at a time. His eyes don’t leave mine, and I don’t look away.

I’ve got him right where I want him, too.

I’ve got all the control I need.

I fucking love it.

BAZ

Simon Snow is an absolute nightmare.

He keeps telling me ‘stop’ or ‘slow down’, only to then grin and let me get back to it. He’s not doing it because he’s spooked, this time; he’s testing his boundaries. He’s toying with me.

I am excessively proud of him.

Simon is rock hard now, throbbing on my tongue—and the three insistent fingers he has inside me are no longer enough.

I give him one last suck, nice and tight, drawing it out until I slide off of him with a loud ‘pop’. He throws his head back and _growls_.

SIMON

Baz is lying back amongst the pillows—a few of them, anyway. There are more folded up under him, elevating his hips into a better position. His knees are bent, legs folded up and falling open for me. He’s already spelled my cock to be plenty slick.

I position myself between his legs ... and I breathe....

* * *

_"Step three,” Baz said as he slipped off of me, leaving me dazed and breathless, "is I lie on my back and you put your cock in my arse.”_

_I croaked out a laugh. “Simple as that, huh?”_

_He smirked. “That’s right.”_

_"Will that position hurt less?” I wondered._

_"It might hurt more. But it will be a better position for me, regardless.”_

_"What? Why?”_

_"Because, Simon Snow,”—Baz danced his fingers over my chest—“I want to see your expression as you sink into me completely for the first time. And I want you to see mine.”_

* * *

I’ve got no idea what the expression I’m making is, and I kind of don’t care—Baz’s expression is everything. His eyes are a little wide and a little glassy. His lips are parting further on every gasp, his breath ratcheting up with each inch of me. His eyebrows pinch tighter and higher and then—oh, fuck—then his _fangs_ —

I rumble a long groan as I feel the last bit of me slot into him. Baz trembles—his fangs are fully descended, but he’s so overcome that I think he hasn’t even noticed.

“Baz—” I should probably see if he’s okay, but I’m as blinkered as he is—the thoughts just won’t form.

“Si—” There’s a flash of something in Baz’s eyes that zaps me from my stupor. He jerks his head to the side, a hand flying up to his mouth. Noticed the fangs, then.

“Don’t cover up … please?” I drape my tail around his calf. “Show me. Kiss me.”

Baz shoots me a wary look as he tentatively lowers his hand. “No kisses.”

“Kisses,” I insist. I litter his cheek in them.

“Idiot.” Baz counters each of my sluggish attempts to steal his lips. “You’ll get cut.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“Unlikely.”

I laugh. I feel drunk off all this closeness. He’s so tight and so lovely.... “Doesn’t matter,” I say, “you won’t Turn me, that’s not how it works.”

“We have no idea how it works,” he huffs, “that’s the problem.”

“Don’t care.”

“You will.”

I bump his nose with mine. “What’s wrong? Don’t want to be stuck with me forever?”

Baz releases a soft sound. Then suddenly his fingers are in my hair and he’s crushing his lips to mine. _“Idiot.”_

I lean my weight on him more, even though I can’t get any closer. “I love you,” I tell him.

Baz gives me another press of lips. “I love _you_ ,” he tells me. “I love you, Simon.” He wraps his arms and legs around me—and yes, _that’s_ closer, that’s _good_ — “I love you, I love you....” Baz squeezes, and I feel it—I really fucking _feel_ it.

BAZ

All sorts of embarrassing words and sounds are falling out of me. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that every time I moan, Simon gives me a roll of his hips. When I say his name, he picks up the pace. When I compliment him, he buries in deep. Every gasp is rewarded and returned. He’s an intrepid brute yet wondrously malleable once I realize how to direct him. He may be the one behind the wheel, but I’m the one changing the gears.

It doesn’t take long until the only things I need to say are “yes” and “perfect”. Because it is—perfect. It’s heat and noise and sweat and wings and fangs—it’s everything. It’s so much—it’s too much—it’s the best possible version of ‘too much’—

A litany of nonsense and curses punctuated with my name is tumbling from Simon’s lips—which I think means he’s close. And I’m right: he starts trying to warn me, as if there’s any place I’d rather have him come than inside me. I clench, eager. I was right about that, as well: having my cock trapped between our bellies as he ruts into me is the exact right amount of stimulation.

Simon’s face is buried in my neck when his orgasm hits. He’s relentless with his hips as each wave of pleasure shudders through him and into me. I watch the tremors of his wings until I’m so wrecked, all I can see is white-hot stars bursting behind my eyelids.

* * *

I’ve lowered my legs, and Simon’s soft cock has slipped out of me; other than that, we’ve barely moved.

“I think I can hear your heart,” he murmurs.

It takes me a moment to register that he’s even spoken. “…what?”

Simon shifts down my body just enough to place his ear on my chest. “I hear it...”

I try to ignore the pound of Simon’s heartbeat reverberating throughout my whole body—perhaps that’s all he’s hearing? But no—there it is—the thrum of my pulse, so much more enthusiastic than usual, doing its undead-best to match his.

“I’ve never heard it before,” Simon whispers.

I hold him closer, cradling his head to my chest and running my nails through his soft, clippered hair. He doesn’t move until long after both of our heartbeats have returned to normal.

Simon lays a kiss on my sternum, then pushes himself away—the sensation of our sticky bodies separating is not one I’m particularly fond of. We both frown at the state of our bellies.

“We,” I say, “are a mess.”

Simon laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a short epilogue-y Chapter 3. I'll try to have that up in a few days~


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said this would take a few days and instead it took a month... Sorry about that!

SIMON

I wake up comfortable. There’s soft morning light coming in through the hotel’s sheer curtains. I’m facing away from it, mostly on my belly, with one arm and one wing draped over Baz. 

_Baz..._

His bare back is to me, gently curved. The filtered sunlight colours his skin like milk and honey. I shift onto my side to spoon him. He’s room temperature, which is pretty warm for Baz—my wing makes a good blanket. To be safe, I pull the sheets higher over him. 

Baz lets out a sweet sigh, and then he hums as I rub circles on his stomach. “Good morning,” he rumbles. 

“Let you sleep in this time.” 

I guess he glances at the clock, because then he says, “Liar.” 

“What time is it?” I could lean over him to check, but I don’t care enough. 

“Quarter to eight.” 

“At least you’ve got all of next week to sleep in.” 

“It’s all right,” Baz says. It’s practically a purr. “I’d rather have this.” 

BAZ

Simon buries his nose into the back of my neck. A delicious shiver trickles down my spine. “How’s your bum?” he mumbles. 

“You tell me.” 

“I _meant_ are you sore or anything?” 

He can’t see me, so I smile too wide. “I know what you meant. I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me. Besides, I heal fast.” 

“Mnn.” Simon shifts closer, plastering himself along my back, shoulders to waist. “That’s good.” 

Placing my hand over his, I impel Simon to move his touch up my body; he goes along willingly, letting me drag his hand up, up, until he’s cupping my neck and jaw—until I can tuck my chin down to kiss his palm. He breathes a pleased sound into my hair. 

I keep my lips against his warm skin. “Did you ask because you’re concerned? Or ... because you want something?” I tilt my hips back and— _ah_. 

“Both...?” he says with a shudder. 

I (carefully) nip the meat of his thumb. “Good answer.” 

Sleeping naked certainly has its advantages. There’s nothing inconspicuous about the feel of Simon’s bare cock filling with desire against my arse. I wriggle my hips into a better position—he grants me a deep groan in response. With another moment of manoeuvring, I then have him tucked between my thighs and breathing hard. 

I urge Simon’s hand back down my body and wrap his fingers around me. He exhales curses against my neck as I languidly roll my hips forward and back, into his hand, onto his cock. It doesn’t take long until we’re both buzzing with the building need. 

“ _Baz—_ ” 

Fuck ... Simon’s grunting, grinding his hips against me, trying to get closer. Nothing could be close enough. I want him _in_ me. He seems to want it, as well. But it’s dry, and I’m not ready.... 

I wonder if there's a spell for that. Trying to come up with one while half-addled with lust would be a recipe for disaster. We’ll have to do it the normal way; not the _Normal_ way, not entirely—I can at least magic us up some lubricant. 

When I lean forward to collect my wand from the bedside table, Simon wordlessly complains about the loss of contact as his cock slips free of my thighs. His grabby fingers dig into my hip; I pry him off, pull his hand to my lips, then slide my mouth over two fingers and start to suck. 

He's not complaining now. 

Once I get his fingers licked and spelled perfectly wet, I direct his hand between our bodies. "Get to work," I tell him. 

"St-stretch you?" Simon's heart is battering against my shoulder blade. 

"That's right. Slowly." 

He doesn't deny me, even though it's not an ideal angle for his wrist. Simon presses his first finger in with little hesitation, then leisurely rocks it in and out. I sigh, arching into the sensations. 

I thought there might be discomfort after last night, but it appears my body truly has recovered—that, plus Simon was never rough with me. (I wonder if I could make him be rough.) (Not now, but ... one day.) 

Simon's breaths are hot and damp on my shoulder as he takes his time working me loose with a single finger. His hips pump with the rhythm. He’s smearing a trail of precome across my arse. 

"Another," I gasp, and he obeys eagerly. 

The nudging of his fingers and cock is insistent. I shift onto my stomach to give him more room. Simon keeps close against my side. 

"Good?" he asks, voice tight. 

"Good...." It's difficult to speak with him humping my hip and stroking me from the inside. I shove my face into the pillow, all intelligent thought dissolving away. 

I'm begging for another all too soon, raising my hips for it. His third finger squeezes its way in, too tight at first—and then it's just right. I moan freely into the pillow. The head of my cock is brushing against the mattress with each press, sending shocks through me. And it’s— Seven snakes, it's _indescribable_ — 

SIMON

"E-enough," Baz warbles. "I'm ... _Crowley_ ... Pull out." 

I take my time withdrawing my fingers. Baz's hips lift further off the bed to chase my hand—which is hot as hell—then he shivers and flops back down once I'm out. He lies there for a minute, catching his breath. He didn’t tell me what else to do, so I don’t do anything except lay kisses on his shoulder and stay pressed against his side, trying not to think. 

Soon enough, Baz is ready to boss me around again. “Sit up,” he tells me. I do, the sheets falling away from us. (I swallow—I’m getting nervous.) Baz spells his hand wet, then he keeps talking, laying out the plan as he straddles me: 

“It’s my turn behind the wheel, darling, and I’m going to take you for a ride.” Baz’s smile is sharp as his cool fingers reach down to slick me with lube. “So hold on nice and tight, because we’re not stopping until I’m completely satisfied. Even if you come first, I won’t stop, Snow. Understood?” 

“U-understood,” I croak. I wish I sounded half as sexy as he does. 

Baz positions himself over me, one hand holding my cock steady. I groan and clutch his waist as I watch his body take me in, one torturous millimetre at a time. He strains, eyes closed and head tilted back. He’s trembling with the whole lot of it—the exertion and the pleasure and probably some pain. 

I squirm. I should probably stop crushing Baz’s sides and pet him soothingly or something, but what I actually want is to yank him down the rest of the way. I _don’t_ —it’s just, the sun’s on my back, and the heat keeps building, and he’s a hauntingly beautiful sight, and I’m so, so _stupidly_ in love— 

It’s too much and not enough. I don’t know what to do. I try not to think. I wish we could just fucking melt together completely. How am I ever supposed to let him go after this? 

Baz settles fully in my lap—he’s panting and shivering, and his fangs are down. I nudge my lips along his jaw. I want to ask if he’s okay. I want to tell him I love him. Is that still something I can do this morning? 

He sighs my name, and all I manage is a whine. 

“All right...?” he murmurs into my hair. That’s what I should be asking him, but I don’t know how. I nod. 

We try to be careful with it: the lazy rhythm he finds, my neediness, our fumbling hands. It’s all nerves and morning breath. And _new_. It feels so new. Even though I was inside him just a few hours ago.... 

Last night, we whispered and planned in the dark. It’s totally different in the light of day. Now it’s a bright, terrifying thing, exposed in the heat of the sun. 

I don’t mean it’s more _real_ —last night was frighteningly real. It’s just ... _more_. More visible. And vulnerable. More undeniable. Which is ... it’s... 

“Stop,” I gasp. Baz does, staring at me with such concern, I have to close my eyes. “Sorry—” 

“Do you ... not want...?” 

I shake my head fast. “I do. Sorry, fuck, it’s just—it’s a lot. It’s scary. How much I want.“ 

“Hey.” Baz tugs at my hand, his fingers shaking. I open my eyes. He looks fragile. “Touch me, feel me,” he pleads, and I do, fuck, I _do_. Baz squeezes my grip around him—he’s aching. “ _Simon_ , if I wanted you any more than this, I might literally black out.” I let out a half-laugh, and Baz smiles crookedly. “You’ll never be too much for me. It’s not possible. I want everything from you. _Please_ , love. No holding back, right?” 

Right. He’s right, of course. That’s the point, innit? It doesn’t matter if I’m selfish or needy with him. Because he wants it. And I want him to be selfish and needy right back. We can finally meet each other blow for blow again. _That’s_ the point. 

I grab his face in both my hands and press a searing kiss to his mouth. “I love you,” I say, and then I kiss him again. I don’t need him to say it back—he lets me slip my tongue into his mouth even though his fangs are down. Answer enough. 

Letting us be like this is never as scary as I keep building it up to be. Even in the light, it’s nothing to be afraid of, is it? We’re not lit up with fire and brimstone any more. These are the flames of a forge. 

I lean back to look at him, petting my hands down his body and settling on his hips as he starts to roll them again. Baz is painted with reds and golds from the sunbeams coming through my wings. He looks like something I want to crash into. He’s looking back at me like he feels the same way. 

Last night, we invented something. A feeling and a language—a whole bloody universe—just for us. And this morning, we’re putting it to the test. Proving it’s strong. And secure. And believable. Somehow, every time he looks at me, I believe it _more_. 

“Oh, _Simon_...” 

Baz’s thighs tremble under my hands with each lift and controlled drop. What a fucking sight.... This is exactly the sort of thing I was always holding myself back from thinking about when watching him on the pitch. It makes me dizzy. 

“Baz, fuck—” 

“So good ... it’s _so_ good,” he moans. 

I don’t want to be apart from him ever again. I need this, this new thing we’ve created—it’s ours, and I’m never letting it go. I _can’t_. And I know he would never let me, not any more. 

“Mine,” I growl. 

“Yours,” Baz growls right back. His fingers dig into my shoulders. “And you’re mine.” 

My reply doesn’t come out the least bit intelligible, so I bite my lip and nod and nod and nod. Baz smiles, fangs and all, then hangs his head back, getting lost in the sensations. 

I flare out my wings for balance, hoping to get some leverage to meet his movements. I don’t want to hurry him along—this careful pace he’s set is brilliant—but I’ve got to _move_. Got to give it back to him, try to make him feel what I’m feeling. 

“So deep,” he croons. 

Baz is balancing himself by hanging onto my shoulders, but his hold’s growing more unsteady as his pleasure builds. I don’t think, I just circle my tail around his waist. Baz sucks in a breath and drops a hand, plastering his touch over the spade of my tail. He presses the flat of it against the soft dip low in his belly. 

“Yes...! Right _there_ —” Baz gyrates his hips into my lap and presses my spade harder, like he’s trying to squeeze the best spot from the inside and out. “So fucking _deep...._ ” 

I’m gonna die. 

I’ve mostly forgotten what my own magic felt like inside me, though I’m pretty sure it was like this. The buzz of something barely restrained, ready to burst. Crackles of limitless power. And _heat_ , so much unbearable heat. 

“Babe—” I gasp. “Can’t— _Fuck_ —” 

His cock is dribbling and swaying every time he bounces along me. He’s too much to look at—I’m too close too soon. I want— I want to— 

I bury my face in the crook of his neck and reach down to paw at him blindly. I want to hang on—I want him _right there_ at the edge with me. 

“ _Please_ ,” Baz begs. He tangles a hand in my hair and clamps even tighter around my spade—and my prick. “Please, love.... _Crowley_ , keep—keep _doing_ that, keep touching me—” 

I lean into it, holding Baz with my tail and free arm, angling him back as I stroke him through each buck of his hips. He clutches my hair harder and moves with me. My wings are beating, my chest’s heaving against his. I’m groaning into his shoulder, loud and incoherent. 

“Baz— Close— I’m— You’re— _God_ , Baz—” 

The threat of being too much, of going supernova, is so fucking welcome like this. It doesn’t matter how tongue-tied I am—there’s no spell to struggle with. We’re well past words—it’s every breath and shiver and clench and drag of his nails— 

Baz stays true to the plan: even as I’m all explosions and starbursts, he doesn’t let up. He rides me through each pulse of it, and then he keeps on using me for everything I’m worth. His movements draw my orgasm out, making me spark and twitch long after I’m done spilling inside him. It’s definitely too much, but I kind of love it. I moan and moan and pump my hand over Baz’s throbbing cock. 

It’s probably only a minute or two before he joins me over the edge, but it feels like I’m caught between the pleasure and pain for an eternity. Baz lets out a cry as he shoots over my fist and belly. I don’t stop stroking him until he sags in my arms. 

Baz is too breathless and out-of-sorts to tell me what to do, so I just hold on, peppering his skin with kisses and thinking about how much I love him. 

BAZ

The world is a hazy glow of orange.... 

Simon’s wings are curled around me, I realize slowly. 

All of him is, really—arms and tail. And I’m wrapped around him—my arms are limp around his neck, and he’s still inside. For a long moment, I can’t tell where he ends and I begin. 

I shift in his lap so he can slip out, and even that is more movement than I can bear. My legs are shot. I groan. 

Simon nuzzles the softest of kisses against my face. “All right, sweetheart...?” 

“I need a shower.” I burrow closer in his arms. “Carry me.” 

Simon’s chuckle rumbles through my core. “Not sure I can manage that.” 

“You’ve done it before.” 

“Hmm. That was with the help of my wings and adrenaline and the fear of imminent death.” 

I huff and peel myself off of him. “Honestly, Snow, what good are you?” I manage one wobbly step towards the toilet; then I leap out of my skin as Simon slaps my arse with his tail. 

I would like to say the sound that falls out of me is not a _squawk_... Alas. Simon flops onto his side with laughter. 

“Fuck off.” I stalk away as best I can on my rubbery legs. “I’m showering without you.” 

“Does that mean I was invited?” Snow delights through his giggles. 

“Fuck off!” 

* * *

Simon follows me, of course. 

The shower is barely large enough for both of us. He keeps hitting me with his wings. The water pressure is disappointing, and the harsh bathroom lighting turns my skin a particularly unappealing grey. I can’t seem to stop complaining about every little thing. When Simon isn’t shutting me up with kisses, he’s mocking me instead. The whole thing is a mess, honestly. I love every minute of it. 

Because he makes me shameless with sentiment, I all but beg him to wash my hair. Other than getting shampoo in my eye and tangling his fingers now and then, he gives a good showing. Simon’s decent with following directions when he cares to pay attention. I suppose you don’t spend your childhood solving puzzles, learning swordplay, searching for hidden artefacts, and being best mates with Penelope Bunce without establishing a certain aptitude with instructions. 

I wash his hair in return. He refuses to let me use conditioner. ( _“Makes me slimy!”_ ) I attempt to squirt some on his head anyway, which progresses into a tussle, ending with me pinning his arms against the tiles. 

“ _Behave_ , Snow.” 

Simon’s smirk is wicked. “Or what?” He cranes his head forward to silence me with more kissing, but I thwart him by leaning back. 

“Or you can’t kiss me.” 

He growls and tries again, to no avail. 

“Are you going to be good?” I purr. 

“Does ‘good’ mean letting you make my hair nasty?” 

“It means letting me use conditioner.” 

I’m gifted with the glorious sight of his jaw jutted in defiance. “Then, no.” 

“If that’s the case, then I’m afraid I can’t let you kiss me.” 

Simon is flushed and doing a poor job of hiding how pleased he is with this whole scene. “C’mon, Baz,” he grouses. “Don’t be spiteful.” 

“There’s no time for spite, darling; checkout is in an hour.” With a few swift motions, I’ve released him, turned off the water, and am standing on the small bath rug, towelling myself dry. “Now, hurry up and get dressed, or we’ll miss breakfast.” 

Simon’s dumbfounded expression as I leave the room is immensely satisfying. 

There’s a thrill at being able to _deny_ Simon my affection. I don’t need to kiss him out of fear that it might be one of my last chances to do so, or that he’ll take my teasing as a deeper rejection. He’s mine, and I’m his. We have the sore muscles to prove it—and even if we didn’t, it remains a fundamental truth. We’re too wrapped up in the fabric of each other to fall apart now. 

Simon might need reminding of that on occasion. Truthfully, I might, as well. That’s all right. We’ll keep fighting for each other and tying ourselves closer together. We’ll bind our every molecule, on every plane, in every dimension. We’ll be so solid, there will be no room left for doubt. 

That’s my plan, anyway. I wonder if it’s too early to start asking Martin Bunce about his research on magickal marriage rites.... Though, I should probably start with finding us a flat together first. 

I’m eager to return to London and do just that. How comforting, to leave this hotel not with a wistful sigh and sense of foreboding, but with optimism burning bright in my chest. 

That is, if we ever do manage to leave—after throwing on some clothes, Simon started puttering about in the loo, shaving. (He seems to think that going through the motions more often than necessary will somehow make him capable of growing a proper beard. Bless his heart.) 

He’s left the bathroom door open, so it’s easy to threaten him as I continue packing my luggage: “I’m giving you two minutes to finish up in there, Snow.” 

He laughs. “What happens after two minutes?” 

“I make you wait until lunch to eat.” 

Simon thrusts his head through the doorway to gawp at me in comical fashion, bits of shaving cream flying off. “You wouldn’t!” 

“Tick tock, love.” 

“You’re a villain!” 

Within seconds, he’s finished and packed away his feeble grooming kit, grumbling under his breath about me all the while. There’s a definite smile in his voice ... so, I decide to test his limits for my pushiness—of which there seem to be none. 

While I take my time styling my hair in the bathroom mirror, I have Simon pack away our laundry, empty the ice from the cooler, leave a few pounds for the housekeeper, and bag my extra pairs of shoes before packing those, as well. 

I’ve run out of tasks, and he knows it. He leans heavily against the doorframe and gives me a cheeky smile. “Anything else, sir?” 

“That will be all.” I close up my own grooming kit and shoo him away so I can go past. He hovers near the bed while I set my kit with the rest of our belongings near the door. 

“You know,” Simon says slowly, “you’re hot when you’re like this.” 

I arch my brow at him. “Like what?” 

“ _You know_ ,” he says again with a shrug. “Bossy.” 

Simon’s surprised when I bark it back at him with a laugh: “‘Bossy’! Oh, _Snow_ ,” I purr, striding towards him and pressing my fingertips against his chest, “I haven’t shown you ‘bossy’ yet.” 

I shove him with only enough force behind it to give him the suggestion of what I want; Simon takes the hint beautifully, flopping back onto the mattress and staring up at me with big eyes and rosy cheeks. 

“Well, fuck me,” he says through a breathless grin. “I’m in for it then, aren’t I?” 

I smirk as I crawl over him. “What’s wrong? Regretting what you signed up for already?” 

Thankfully, I have no doubt what Simon’s answer will be, and even if I did, I think such thoughts would be permanently dashed by the flare of his pupils and the eagerness with which he grasps my hips. I hold myself precisely out of his mouth’s reach as he breathes his reply: 

“ _Baz_ ... I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.”

And then I let him kiss me. 

SIMON

We missed breakfast. (And checkout.) 

For good reason, but _still_. I’m starving by the time we’re driving away from the hotel. 

“I gotta eat,” I groan. 

“Yes, yes, I’m well aware of your dietary needs.” 

“You make me sound like a dog.” 

Baz purses his lips. “Well.” 

“‘ _Well_ ’?!” 

He’s trying not to laugh. “Where do you suggest we get lunch? 

“Anywhere.” 

“No spots in Blackpool you’d recommend?” 

I shrug. “It’s been ages, I’ve no idea. Besides, not like I did a lot of culinary tours.” 

“Fine, find somewhere with your mobile, then.” 

I pick a random Mexican restaurant that’s not too far. Stuffing my face with a burrito sounds fucking heavenly. Baz groans about it ( _“You’re going to stink up my car, you horrible gremlin.”_ ), but I know he’s obsessed with guacamole, so he’s not actually gonna say no. 

As we eat, Baz keeps asking if there’s anything else I want to do around here. As if I’ve got a list of local hangouts I’m all nostalgic for or something. As if I ever saw much of Blackpool at all. I’m not sure what he thinks I spent my days doing while in care. 

“Last call,” Baz says as we head back to the car after lunch. 

I frown at him. “Is there somewhere _you_ want to go, is that why you keep asking?” 

Baz twirls his key fob. “We’ve come all this way, and I doubt we’ll be back in the area any time soon. It seems like a waste to not, I don’t know, go see your old stomping grounds, or something of the sort.” 

“There are no stomping grounds, Baz.” 

He leans against the car, looking picture-perfect. “What about the care home?” 

“What about it? It burnt to the ground.” Baz’s eyebrows go up. “You didn’t know that?” 

“I’d heard the rumours, but I ... thought that was an exaggeration,” he admits. 

I shake my head. It’s almost funny. “Nah. I woke up in my bed, and everything around me was ash. Somehow, I teleported everyone a few streets away. Or something.” I shrug. “No one was hurt. But. Yeah. It’s gone.” 

Baz stares at me for a thoughtful moment. I rub at my hair. “Well,” he says slowly, “would you like to see what’s there now?” 

“No? Why?” 

“Why _not_? We’re here. Maybe it will be cathartic.” 

“No,” I say again. “It’s probably still a blackened pit.” Then I think about that word, _cathartic_ , and I wonder if my therapist would say the same. Probably. I groan and rub my hair more. “ _Fine_.” 

Baz’s eyebrows go higher. “Really?” 

“C’mon.” I head around to the passenger’s side. “Before I change my mind.” 

BAZ

While Simon doesn’t remember the address, his feel for the area is better than he let on. He directs me on a series of hunches. There are several times where I think he’s got us lost ... then he catches sight of something he recognizes or ‘gets a good feeling about’, so we continue on. 

I wouldn’t mind even if it turned out we’ve been going in a circle for the past half hour. The scenery isn’t pleasant, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t need him to show me only the luxurious parts of Lancashire. 

I’m relieved he feels comfortable enough to let me do this with him, to let me really _see_. 

I can tell when we’re getting close because his tail, though invisible, is thrashing against the door. (I’ll chastise him for leaving scuffs later.) His directions start coming faster. 

“Slow down,” he tells me. (I do.) “No, okay, go. Go, go, past the— wait. Slow down. Turn here. Go, I think it’s— stop! Stop, stop, stop!” 

Simon smashes his face against the window while I secure us a parking spot farther up the street. The moment I kill the engine, he pushes his way out of the car and walks back towards whatever he spotted like he’s being pulled by a string. I catch up with him in short order, coming to stand at his side. 

“This...,” he murmurs. Simon slowly swings his head about, looking at the buildings on either side. He briefly turns to check the view across the street as well. “This is it....” 

I stare with him. “Well. It isn’t a blackened pit.” 

Simon frowns at the building before us. It’s unassuming—it’s defining feature is that it’s obviously newer than the other buildings in the area. Two stories, with even brickwork and a large white door. It looks sturdy, clean, perhaps even inviting. There’s minimal wear. 

I slide my gaze towards Simon, studying his profile as he glowers. “You’re frowning.” 

“It’s ... nicer than it was.” 

“That’s comforting, isn’t it?” 

“Don’t.” 

“Don’t what?” 

He sets his jaw and keeps staring. “Don’t make it into a thing.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I merely think it’s refreshing that something new and beautiful came from the ashes.” 

“ _Stop_ ,” he snaps. He tangles his hands into the front of his hair and starts pacing. “You’re making it into a metaphor!” 

“It’s a very good metaphor.” 

“It’s not!” Simon kicks at the pavement while he stalks about.“My life isn’t a story, Baz.” 

“Everyth—“ 

“ _Don’t_ say it! It’s _not_ a story. It’s just— It’s just my _life_. There’s no greater purpose or climactic ending or whatever. It’s just _normal_ ,” he grunts with a gesture at the building. Then, realizing he’s made a metaphor of it as well, he groans and sags with defeat. “Fucking hell....” 

I say nothing. I watch his eyes dart about as he struggles to take it all in. 

Eventually, he releases a loud exhale. “Let’s go.” 

We walk back to the car together. I bump his arm with mine. 

“It’s not a story,” he grumbles again. 

I twirl my keys. “No riding off into the sunset?” 

“It’s noon.” 

“No happy ending?” 

He shoots me a sour look. “I don’t want a happy ending, Baz. I want a happy _life_.” 

I unlock the car. We both hesitate at the door. “With me?” I ask, even though I know the answer. 

Simon rolls his eyes. “Stop being a twat.” Well, that’s not the answer I was fishing for. It must show on my face, because Simon immediately blusters: “Yes, with you! Christ, Baz. You— I mean— I want— I want a fucking happily ever after with you, all right?” 

I sniff with feigned disinterest. “I don’t know, Snow; that sounds an awful lot like the ending to a story.” 

Simon growls, his tail coming up to snatch my wrist. “That’s not an _ending_ , you arse. That’s all the middle bits. ‘Ever after’ is— It’s—it’s _everything_. It’s _forever_.” 

I curl my hand around his tail and hold on tight. “That sounds good,” is the only thing I manage to say. 

I pull Simon to me, and we kiss against the car. It’s slow and unhurried. We’re on no one’s schedule except our own. 

The drive to London will be a solid four hours. There’s no white horse. No shining armour. No sunset. 

No end in sight. 

We just go. 


End file.
